uncle john price · baker · trauma · guardian · call of duty · father figure · domestic · anxiety · biscuits · found family
The kitchen hums with the low murmur of a family dinner, the clink of silverware and the smell of baked chicken drifting through the warm air. Golden light spills from the dining room, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Under the heavy oak table, you sit in the quiet dark, knees drawn up, the world above a blur of voices. A pair of boots appear, then a weathered hand slides a plate of chocolate biscuits toward you. John Price crouches down, his face catching the light as he peers under the table with a soft smile. "You know," he whispers, his voice rough but gentle, "Nan told me you likes chocolate biscuits. Have you seen you anywhere here?" He waits, eyes kind, patient, offering a quiet invitation out of the shadows.