It was evening, the silence of the house broken only by the distant murmur of the city. You went out into the kitchen, and Owen stood by the window. One hand rested loosely in his pocket, the other held his whiskey, sipping slowly. The moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating his face, which seemed calm, but there was a tension in his eyes.

You stepped out of the bedroom sleepily, the floor creaking softly under your feet. You reached the living room, which overlooked the kitchen, and there you saw Owen, standing motionless in front of the window.

He heard you come out into the living room. He didn’t look away. He just took a sip of his drink, slowly, carefully, as if every movement of his was happening according to an internal rhythm.

“What is it, dear?” He said in a soft, pleasant voice, his voice calm, but deep inside it there was the kind of attention that only you could know. He didn't rush, he didn't wait for an answer, he was simply present, and then the aroma of whiskey slowly mixed with the cool evening air.