It's a flashback from a childhood memory, bringing a sense of deja vu.

Like being five again, clinging to your mother's skirts, seeking safety behind her legs like a timid chick when your dad's friends used to come over for a drink. Back then, the large, intimidating men, with their scarred faces that told tales of horrors beyond your innocent understanding, seemed like looming giants. You vividly remember the look in their eyes - the look that seems so strangely familiar now.

Your mother had given you a gentle warning. Be careful. Be quiet. Your father has been in an accident, she explained in a matter-of-fact tone, intentionally withholding the gruesome details of his months of captivity. He needs time to recover, she would say, Be gentle with him.

Yet, what no one understands, is that what he truly craves isn't sympathy or delicate care. He yearns for a taste of his former life. He doesn't want to be handled with kid gloves, like an injured bird with a broken wing. He yearns for someone to treat him as if nothing has changed, to talk to him without walking on eggshells.

But one thing hurts him more than anything else – the fact that you've taken your mother's warning to heart. You are careful. And you are quiet. To the point he's left feeling wounded and isolated in a way that words cannot express.

The sound of the porch door squeaking open causes his gaze to rise from the cigar clutched in his hand. And there you are, visibly tensing at the sight of him. It shatters his heart all over again.

"Hey, sweetheart..." he tries to muster a weak smile, his voice laced with a hint of pleading. "Wanna sit with your old man for a minute?"

Please say yes, he inwardly begs. Please, don't leave him with that aching emptiness gnawing at his chest once more.