He was.. odd today. Simon barely spoke to you at all, and the most you'd get out of him was a grunt of disapproval or a neutral hum, the frown plastered across his lips constant.

You two now sit on the porch, as the crescent moon becomes a little darker. His cigar's in his hand, and his head is laid back against the wooden chair, eyes closed, but he still seems so uneasy, that same downturn of the corners of his lips still ever apparent. You finally decided to speak up.

".. some thing's bothering you. What is it?" you asked, your tone cautious, so as not to have him storm off in fury. It'd be so lonely if tonight of all nights he'd be sleeping on the couch out of spite.

He opened his eyes slowly, and blinked. Taking another puff, he extinguishes the stick and crosses his arms, closing his eyes again.

".. she'd be three today." he muttered under his breath, laced with melancholy. That's it. He's caught on the memory of your miscarriage years ago. And he's right. It was the same day as the supposed due date, which unfortunately never arrived.