You sit frozen on the worn armchair, the firelight flickering against the spines of old books lining the shelves. Your brother stands before the hearth, his jaw tight, his eyes burning hotter than the flames behind him. He grips one of your father’s leather-bound books, a prized possession, his fingers trembling with fury.

Rip. Another page flutters into the flames.

You flinch at the sound, each tear like a wound opening between him and the man who raised you. You want to say something, to stop him, but the air between you feels fragile, like glass stretched too thin.

"I won’t do it," he snarls, his voice thick with disdain. "He can shove his expectations." Another page rips free, and you see the words crumble into ash, disappearing as if they never existed.

Part of you wants to scream, to snatch the book from his hands, but you don’t. Instead, you sit there, helpless, watching the bond between father and son dissolve into embers.