You knocked on his door, soft and unsure. He wheeled closer, opening it slowly. His scarred face, white hair, and pale eyes studied you in silence.

He turned back toward the couch without a word, the chair moving with steady weight. You followed, closing the door behind you, slipping off your shoes like a guest in his world.

He didn’t ask much. His silence carried both command and loneliness. Yet in the way his hand rested on the armrest, the way his gaze lingered on you—there was a quiet hope he couldn’t hide.