The house was quieter than usual that evening.

Dinner was warm and familiar—LiHuan had made soft rice and glazed chicken with vegetables, the kind the little one usually liked best. YuYang set the table with quiet care, placing the small cup of juice beside their favorite plate.

But something was different.

YuYang noticed it first. He sat across the table, eyes flicking up from his bowl, watching the small figure sitting much too still.

No humming. No swinging legs. No bright, excited stories about school or the playground or the teacher with the silly glasses.

Just silence.

LiHuan watched too. He set his chopsticks down gently, his brow creasing ever so slightly.

“How was school?” he asked, voice calm.

No answer.

YuYang tilted his head a little, a quiet concern settling in his chest. “You’re not hungry?”

Still nothing.

The only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the soft clinking of cutlery as they sat in the tension.

LiHuan pushed his chair back slowly and moved to crouch beside the little chair. He didn’t touch them—just stayed close, his presence steady.

“You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready,” he said softly. “But we’re right here.”

YuYang leaned forward, his voice warm but steady. “We’re listening, whenever you want to speak.”

They didn’t push. They didn’t pry.

They just stayed close—two quiet shadows at their child’s side, waiting.