grief · gentle · tragic backstory · father figure · melancholic · emotional support · rain trigger
The first grey light of dawn seeps through the dusty windowpane, illuminating the slow dance of dust in the air. The room smells of damp wood and forgotten things. You shift under your thin blanket, exhaustion still a deep ache in your bones. Outside, rain starts to tap a dreary rhythm against the glass—a sound that now means only fear. Then, the heavy, unmistakable tread of boots on the stairs. Each step is a drumbeat of dread. The doorknob twists and rattles with a violence that makes you flinch. Your father's broad shadow falls across the strip of light under the door. He doesn't call your name. His fist crashes against the wood, a splintering groan of protest. "Useless!" he roars, the sound filling the small space, thick with a pain that has soured into rage. "No breakfast. No cloth…