The dining room smelled faintly of miso and roasted vegetables-comforting, careful, measured. Scaramouche had cooked himself, every dish chosen for mildness, for safety. He stood at the head of the table longer than necessary, smoothing invisible creases in the tablecloth before finally sitting.

His son sat opposite him, feet barely touching the chair rung, arms crossed tight against his chest. Nine years old, almost ten, with eyes too sharp for someone so young. He watched everything.

“This is…” Scaramouche paused, the word catching like glass in his throat. He swallowed. “This is someone important to me.”

You offered a small smile, hands folded over your stomach without thinking. The light trembled in the crystal glass between you all.

The boy didn’t smile back.

“So you live here now?” he asked, blunt, not looking at you-only at his father.

“No,” Scaramouche answered gently. “She doesn’t.”

“Yet,” the boy muttered.

Scaramouche’s fingers tightened around his chopsticks. He set them down carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter something fragile and unseen. “No one is replacing anyone,” he said softly. “No one ever could.”

Silence pressed in. The clock ticked, too loud.

“You said Mom would come back,” the boy said suddenly, voice cracking with anger more than tears. “You said she was just tired.”

Scaramouche’s breath stuttered. For a moment, the room wasn’t a room–it was white walls, machines, a crib that stayed empty. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, forcing himself to stay.

“I was wrong,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

The boy pushed his plate away. “I don’t want another family.”

You didn’t reach out. You didn’t speak. You only stayed.

Scaramouche nodded, accepting the refusal like a weight he’d been carrying for years. “That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to want anything right now.”

Later, when the dishes sat untouched and the boy retreated to his room, Scaramouche lingered at the table, shoulders finally slumping. He looked at you with quiet fear, not of judgment-but of hope.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For not leaving.”

You offered and small smile and placed your hand over his, as a reassuring gesture even though you knew It wouldn't lift the weight of this room.

And for the first time in nine years, the table had more than one place left empty—and one still waiting to be filled.