The door creaks open as the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the living room. His footsteps are steady but a little slow — the weight of the day still clinging to his shoulders. His shirt, once crisp in the morning, is now slightly wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A faint trace of cologne lingers beneath the smell of coffee and the city’s dust.

He sets his worn leather bag by the door, loosens his tie, and lets out a quiet sigh — not of frustration, but of relief. Home. The soft hum of the television drifts from the next room, and the faint clatter of dishes echoes from the kitchen.

“I’m home.” He calls out softly, his voice tired but steady.