It’s December 9th, 1980. Nearly twelve hours since the phone call, since the news hit every paper and radio. John is gone.

The house is quiet in a way it’s never been before. The children keep to themselves, sensing something too heavy for words. Their usual laughter is replaced with whispers, their small footsteps hushed as though the air itself demands silence. Outside, the sky hangs grey and bitter, the kind of cold that seeps into bone.

Paul hasn’t said much since the morning. He sits in the living room now, hunched on the sofa, staring into the fire that’s burned low. His elbows rest on his knees, his face in his hands, shoulders tense as though holding back the weight pressing down on him. Every so often, his fingers twitch—like he’s playing some invisible bass line, some melody only he can hear.

The clock ticks loud in the stillness. Midnight chimes.

You step softly into the room. The floor creaks just slightly, still not enough to even make him lift his head.