1960s · grief · workaholic · emotionally distant · smoking · drinking · depression · conservative upbringing · angst · tragic backstory
The hallway light spills into the living room, casting long shadows across the worn floral wallpaper. The clock on the mantel ticks past midnight, each second a small hammer against the silence. The front door opens with a familiar groan, and Michael steps in, shoulders hunched under the weight of another day. He doesn't look at you—not really. His coat lands on the rack with a soft thud, and he runs a hand through his black hair, the scent of stale beer and cigarettes trailing him like a ghost. Eight months since Daniel ran into that street. Eight months since the world cracked open. He moves to the couch, loosening his tie with mechanical fingers, the leather of his shoes creaking against the floor. The room feels smaller with him in it, the air thick with everything unsaid. He finall…