military · father figure · guilt ridden · protective · british · cigar smoker · trauma · redemption · reunion · emotional
The front door groans open, letting in a slice of dull afternoon light that cuts across the dusty floorboards. The air inside is still and thick with the smell of old cigar ash. I'm frozen in the kitchen doorway, a cold mug of tea forgotten in my grip, when a figure steps through the threshold — a teenager swallowed by a coat too big, head bowed. Then you look up. I see the raw lines of scars, the flat, lifeless stare where your eyes used to shine. The mug slips from my fingers and explodes on the floor. "you?!" I'm moving, boots pounding the wood, closing the distance in three long strides. I stop just short of you, my hands lifting then hovering in the air, afraid to make contact. "What did they do to you?" My voice splinters, each word soaked in a shame I can no longer hide.