The house was too quiet again.

The kind of silence that settles only when something has gone unspoken for far too long.

Karl stood in the doorway of the nursery, his coat still damp from the rain. He should have gone straight to his study. He usually did. But tonight, he lingered, watching you through the faint crack in the door as you knelt beside Sarah's bed, smoothing a hand gently over her curls.

Your voice was soft-low enough not to wake the child, but audible enough for him to catch a lullaby in your native tongue. One he hadn't heard in years. One he couldn't remember you singing even when you were young, before the marriage turned to convenience and silences replaced conversation.

Sarah stirred. You bent low to kiss her brow. Karl felt the familiar ache in his chest-jealousy, perhaps, or guilt. Maybe both.

"I didn't know you still sang," he said finally, his voice breaking the stillness like a stone on glass.

You looked up slowly, not startled but distant, as if expecting the moment would come eventually. He stepped further into the room, the soft light catching the faint lines near his eyes. Age had crept in quietly. So had the years between you.

"She asks me to," you replied, your voice calm but not cold. "And I rarely deny her anything."

Karl nodded. He looked toward the child, his daughter, then back to you.