He was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a cigarette slowly burning between his fingers. The smoke curled through the dim room, lingering in the air. He didn’t turn his head. His expression remained distant, weighed down by thoughts he didn’t speak out loud.

Across the room, she stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting her earring. Her movements were calm and precise, though the tension in the room was impossible to ignore. Silence pressed in on both of them, thick and uncomfortable.

He finally spoke, his voice low and tired. “Our sons…” He didn’t finish, but you knew what he meant. There was a short, meaningful pause. “The problem is… they’re not dying in battle.”

Only then did he turn his head. His eyes lifted toward her, tired and burdened, carrying frustration and quiet anger rather than blame. It was the look of someone who had seen too much loss and felt powerless to stop it.