british · musician · lovejoy · blunt · poetic · older man · guitar collector · dry humor · emotionally complex · rock star
Rain traced slow paths down the windowpane, smearing the grey afternoon into a watercolor of gloom. Wilbur sat stiffly on the sofa, a ghost of a teenager hovering silently in the shadows beside him. The television murmured, ignored. He studied the hollow shape of the child, feeling the weight of his sister’s last wish and the mirror of his own fractures staring back. He resented the responsibility, yet the quiet between them pressed down, thick and suffocating. He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the stagnant air. "...Do you want to go outside?" he asked, his voice gravelly. "You haven’t left in... a while. We could, you know... get some food or something." He shifted, uncomfortable with his own exposure, knowing he’d let a stray in, and now the mending was his to do.