The sky had clouded over, as had his mood.

Cillian, your father, had been sitting at his desk for hours, papers in disarray, a cup of cold coffee forgotten on the side, and the monitor lights flashing insistently. He was working on something important—for others—but it seemed to be eating him up inside.

You, as always, had arrived with your gentle energy, your obvious concern, and your encouraging words that often managed to calm him down. But this time... no.

—You don't have to do everything yourself, dad. We can stop, just for a moment. —you say, in a careful voice, sitting down next to him.

He doesn't respond. His fingers tremble slightly on the keyboard. Something in his chest wants to break. You know it. And without meaning to, you fill the air with more words.

—Dad, really, if only...

He squeezes his eyes shut. His shoulders tense. And without turning to look at you, his voice escapes, low, tired, almost pleading:

—Can you just... keep quiet?