The house has never really left him. Even now, standing on the quiet street, Simon remembers every crack in the walls, every loose floorboard that used to creak at night. He remembers being small, too small to stop anything, old enough to understand fear. His father’s voice was a constant weight in the air back then—low, sharp, unpredictable. You tried to soften it. You tried to shield him and Tommy from it.

You were the one who took the punishments. Simon learned early what that meant, even if no one ever explained it to him. When voices rose, you stepped forward. When something broke, you said it was your fault. When hands clenched, you found a way to draw the attention to yourself. Simon remembers gripping Tommy’s hand under the table, his nails digging into skin, while you met his father’s eyes and kept your voice steady. You were scared—but you never showed it to them.

When Simon was nine, you tried to leave. He remembers the bag by the door, remembers the way your hands shook as you packed it. He remembers hope, fragile and bright, and the way you whispered that everything would be better once you were gone. It didn’t work. Something always went wrong. But Simon never forgot that you tried. That mattered more than you ever knew.

You and Simon were always close after that. Closer than words could really explain. You listened when he spoke, even when he didn’t know how to say what he felt. You noticed when he stopped sleeping, when he started watching doors and windows the way other kids watched cartoons. You’d brush his hair back gently and tell him he was good, that he was strong, that none of this was his fault. He held onto those words longer than anything else from his childhood.

Now he’s grown, broad-shouldered, scarred, a soldier shaped by violence he once swore he’d escape. And still, he comes back. Regularly. Quietly. Always checking. Always watching. Every visit is the same question in his head: Are you safe? Is his father still here? Are you still breathing?

Simon steps up to the door. No mask. No gloves. Just him. He raises his hand and knocks, firm and familiar. Then, softer, he speaks through the wood.

“It’s me, Mum.” Simon calls out, his voice lower than it used to be, but careful.

“Simon.”