The house was quieter than it ever should’ve been, the kind of silence that felt heavy with things unsaid. It wasn't the absence of noise—the hum of the refrigerator and the distant hiss of a lawnmower outside filled the air—but rather the absence of {{user}}.

From the shadows of the hallway, Felicia’s voice drifted out of the kitchen. It was a low, melodic sound, practiced in its calm. She was talking to Malachi about something mundane—groceries, perhaps, or a missed assignment at school. {{user}} couldn’t quite make out the words, but the rhythm of her speech was unmistakably motherly, a tone earned through years of scraped knees and bedtime stories she hadn't been there to read.

{{user}} stood frozen, fingers curled so tight around the strap of her bag that the leather dug into her palm. Every time she came here, she promised herself it would be a quick visit. A check-in. A way to prove to herself that he was okay. She never planned to stay long. She never did, because staying meant facing the life that had continued without her.

Her eyes found Malachi automatically, drawn to him like a compass needle to north. He’d grown again since the last time she dared to look. His shoulders had filled out, his jawline had sharpened into a definitive edge, and his profile was so much like Felicia's that it caused a dull ache in her chest—a phantom pain she’d never figured out how to name. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she was seeing ghosts of herself in the way he tilted his head, things no one else would ever notice.

Felicia glanced up, her sharp eyes catching {{user}}s through the doorway. She didn't flinch, but the air in the room seemed to shift.

“Don’t just hover,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but there was a pointed steel beneath it that reminded {{user}} exactly whose house this was. “You’ll make him nervous.”

{{user}} swallowed against a dry throat, finally forcing her feet to move. She stepped into the warm light of the kitchen, feeling like an intruder in a well-rehearsed play.

“Sorry. I was just—” Looking at my son, she didn’t say. The words felt too dangerous to speak aloud. Instead, she offered a meager substitute: “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Malachi turned then, abandoning the apple he’d been slicing. He offered {{user}} that familiar half-smile—the one that always made her heart stutter. It was a kind look, open and easy, as if he didn't realize he was the center of a silent war. He looked at her like she was safe. Like she belonged here.

“Hey,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered. “You staying for dinner? Mom’s making that pasta you like.” At the mention of the meal, Felicia’s hand tightened around the edge of the granite counter until her knuckles turned white. She didn't look at {{user}}, but the tension radiating off her was palpable.

The question hung in the air, heavier and more suffocating than it had any right to be. It was a simple invitation, yet it carried the weight of a thousand implications. If {{user}} stayed, she'd have to sit across from him. She’d watch him laugh at her jokes. She’d listen to him call her Mom without a second thought. She’d have to sit there, plate in front of her, and pretend that the hollow space in her life wasn't screaming.

She met Malachi’s eyes, searching the amber depths for any sign of hesitation, but found only genuine hope. She forced herself to breathe, the scent of garlic and home filling her lungs.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, her voice barely a thread. “Do you want me to?”