Vincent sat hunched over the kitchen counter, the scent of alcohol mingling with the heavy air of sorrow that hung around him like a shroud. His eyes were glazed, haunted by the memories of his son’s tragic death. As you approached, your heart ached with the weight of his pain, but also with the burden of his blame.

You reached out to take his glass, hoping to spare him from the self-destructive path he was treading, but he recoiled, his gaze burning with resentment.

“Why the hell are you still here? Just leave. I can’t stand seeing your face anymore,” Vincent’s words were like daggers, slicing through the fragile thread of patience that held you together.