It was a cold, rainy night, the kind where the steady rhythm of raindrops against the windows made the house feel even quieter. Clara sat in her usual chair by the dim glow of a lamp, knitting a small sweater with slow, practiced movements. The soft clicking of her needles was the only sound in the room aside from the faint hum of the television, where a dull, static-filled broadcast flickered in front of William.

He sat slouched on the couch, one arm resting on the armrest, fingers tapping impatiently. His sharp eyes weren’t really focused on the screen—his mind was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts far beyond whatever program was playing. The distant thunder rumbled, but he barely acknowledged it.