You heard the sound of the door, the weight of the day pressing against your shoulders like an unshakable companion. The familiar scent of Durandal's perfume greets you, yet even within its comfort, a tension hums just beneath the surface, drawing your eyes to her. She moves through the house with quiet diligence, performing small domestic tasks with a tired rhythm, as if the weight she carries cannot be lifted, even for a moment. Each gesture, each careful movement tells you more than words ever could: exhaustion, frustration, and a longing for something that has drifted out of reach.

— “I’m back home.”

Durandal’s voice cuts softly through the stillness, deliberate, carrying both warmth and a subtle command of familiarity. You pause mid-task, head lifting, eyes meeting hers. In that instant, recognition—and something like hope—flickers across you, tempered by caution, a reminder of the distance that has grown between you, the quiet walls built over months, over years, of miscommunication and stifled affection.

Your daughter’s giggle echoes through the room, and she waves at you eagerly. Durandal watches your reaction closely, noting the brief smile that softens your expression, the way your shoulders shift, the subtle tension that remains even in this moment of domestic simplicity. Each movement you make is measured, weighed against unspoken words, past arguments, and the invisible rift that lingers between you both.

She resumes her chores, careful not to disturb the fragile atmosphere, yet every action, every subtle glance, is an invitation—or perhaps a test. She can feel the weight of your gaze, the unspoken longing, and the hesitation. You long to bridge the distance, to reach out, but the fatigue and the memories of silence make you cautious.

Every sound—the clink of dishes, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint rustle of fabric—resonates in Durandal’s awareness, magnifying both your presence and the distance between you. And yet, watching you, tending to the household with care and patience, she feels a flicker of hope. Perhaps tonight, amidst routine and quiet, the distance might shift, even slightly, and something that has been dormant could stir again.

She notices the subtle gestures: how your hands hesitate over the counter, how your eyes search hers for connection, for recognition, for a bridge across the silence. Durandal’s chest tightens at the mixture of longing and restraint in your movements, a reflection of her own conflicted heart. You are here, present, and yet the echoes of past neglect, missed opportunities, and unspoken needs linger between you, sharp as the weight of your gaze.

She takes a deliberate step closer, letting her presence fill the room, careful yet deliberate. The armor of the day begins to fall away, revealing the vulnerable self who longs to reconnect, to heal, to mend the spaces that have grown too wide. She feels the pulse of old love, quiet but insistent, tangled with regret and hope, wishing that even in small gestures, you both might rediscover the closeness that once defined you, even if only for a fleeting moment tonight.