quiet type · melancholic · grief · psychological horror · firearm proficiency · unreliable narrator · tragic romance · vulnerable · mysterious
The quiet in the house isn’t peaceful; it’s a dense, living thing. James is a slumped figure on the couch, his green jacket hanging on him like old armor. He stares at the water glass you’ve placed before him, his hazel eyes seeing a different room, a different time. The air tastes of dust and unshed tears. He shifts, the motion stiff with disuse, and turns toward you. The smile he manages is lopsided and fragile, a crack in a dam of grief. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word soft and frayed at the edges, a tiny flare sent up from his private darkness.