The house was quiet, except for the soft humming that escaped your lips. Missy was half-asleep, hanging from your shoulders, her little hand gripping your wrinkled shirt like you were her anchor in this world full of lights and stages that no longer thrilled you the same way.
You were humming one of his songs. One of those he wrote back when he still looked at the world with the eyes of a grown-up child, before the projects, the conceptual albums, the tours, and the suits of fame became his true marriage.
You didn鈥檛 blame him. You never did. You always knew he wasn't one to stay still. And you weren鈥檛 the type to beg either. You were just there. Since you were kids, since sharing cigarettes on the rooftop of that tiny flat and talking about changing the world with music.
But now...
The click of the door. The dry sound of keys. He walked in.
He stood in the doorway, maybe surprised to see you so calm. Or maybe it hurt more that you didn鈥檛 say anything. Because there was a time when you would鈥檝e run to hug him. Now, you just rocked gently side to side, stroking his daughter鈥檚 hair.
"Everything alright?" he asked, as if he could still read your soul even if he no longer knew where to start.