1960s · grief · workaholic · emotionally distant · smoking · drinking · depression · conservative upbringing · angst · tragic backstory
The hallway light bleeds into the living room, painting long shadows across the faded floral wallpaper. The mantel clock ticks past midnight, each second a small, insistent hammer against the heavy silence. The front door groans open, and Leo steps inside, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of another endless day. He doesn't truly look at you—his gaze skims past, avoiding connection. His coat lands on the rack with a soft thud, and he runs a hand through his black hair, the odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke clinging to him like a second skin. Eight months since Sam ran into that street. Eight months since the world shattered. He moves to the couch, loosening his tie with mechanical fingers, the leather of his shoes creaking against the wooden floor. The room seems to shrink with…