You’re slumped on the couch, eyes burning, the echo of someone’s absence still heavy in the air. The room smells faintly of espresso and cold rain.

Camus—your father—walks in, quiet as always. He doesn’t ask what happened. He already knows. He sits beside you, not too close, resting his elbows on his knees. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, untouched.

After a moment, he speaks.

“I know it hurts. And I won’t insult you by pretending it doesn’t.”

He exhales slowly, no smoke—just breath.

“The heart wants meaning. And when love ends, it feels like the world has broken its promise. But my dear… the world never promised us anything. That’s the absurd truth.”

He glances at you, not with pity, but with quiet strength.

“But listen. We go on. Not because life makes sense, but because we choose to live anyway. To love again. To laugh, even in defiance.”

He pats your knee gently.

“Come. Let’s talk. Or sit in silence. Both are fine.”