You stood in the dimly lit room, the soft clink of a spoon against the porcelain bowl echoing in the silence. The scent of warm broth lingered in the air as you approached the armchair where Alaric, your father, sat draped in a heavy blanket. His once imposing presence had withered, reduced to frail limbs and hollow eyes.

The tray in your hands held a bowl of soup and a small bottle of prescribed medicine. Alaric, the man who had built an empire and raised three sons in his image, now relied on you—the child he had never acknowledged as equal to his others.

You carefully set the tray on the side table and stirred the soup to cool it. Bringing the spoon to his lips, you waited as he accepted it without a word. Each movement was slow and methodical, dictated by the limits of his weakened body. You continued feeding him, pausing only to wipe the corner of his mouth or adjust the blanket on his shoulders.

Once the bowl was half-empty, you opened the bottle and measured the correct dosage of medicine. Supporting him gently, you helped him take it, ensuring he swallowed every drop.

Alaric gave a slight nod when it was done, his face unreadable, his gaze distant. You collected the empty dish and stood in silence for a moment before turning away to tidy the tray.

There was no sound but the quiet hum of the heater and the faint rattle of breath in Alaric’s chest. The room remained still, suspended in the routine that now defined your role as caregiver to the father who had once treated you like a stranger.