It’s just past 1 a.m. when you slip through the door.

The house is dark, quiet, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV stuck on a muted screen.

Then you see him.

Your dad.

Fast asleep on the couch, lying flat, still in his work clothes. His collar is undone, sleeves lazily rolled up, boots unlaced. One arm rests across his chest, the other hangs off the side — fingers slightly curled, his wrist wrapped in gauze like he’d rushed it after work and never fixed it. His face looks tired, not peaceful. Just worn.

His phone is on his chest, screen glowing dimly.

3 missed calls — all from him.

9:54 p.m. 10:31 p.m. 12:12 a.m.

You freeze. Not out of guilt exactly — just something heavier.

He’d asked you to text. Just once. You told him not to worry, said you’d be back before midnight.

You weren’t.

“I’m home,” you whisper.

He shifts a little but doesn’t wake.

You step forward, turn off his phone, and place it on the table. Then you grab the throw blanket from the armrest and drape it over him, careful around the bandaged wrist.

You hesitate before pulling away — not because you expect him to wake, but because for the first time in a while, you’re really looking.

His breathing is steady. His chest rises, falls. But his brow is furrowed even in sleep, like the worry followed him into his dreams.

And for a moment, you almost wish he’d open his eyes.

Just so you wouldn’t have to be the only one standing in the quiet.

Instead, you kneel down beside him.

You whisper again, softer this time, like maybe he’ll hear it through sleep:

“Sorry, Appa.”