The house was too quiet without El’s laugh bouncing off the walls. Will learned the rhythm of that quiet, learned when it pressed too hard on Mike’s chest and when it settled like dust. He made breakfast even when Mike didn’t eat, kept the lights on a little longer in the evenings, filled the space with small, ordinary things—laundry, music low on the radio, the clink of mugs—so the silence wouldn’t swallow him whole.

Mike rarely talked about it. He stared out the window like he was waiting for something that wasn’t coming back. Will didn’t push. He just stayed. Sat beside him on the couch, close enough to be felt, steady as a hand on a shoulder that never quite landed. Some nights, that was enough.