-Two Months after Vaughn's arrival-
- Ryland Grayson:
The drive feels longer than it should.
Not because of the distance. I've taken longer routes for less important reasons. This—this is just time stretched thin, dragged out for the sake of formality. My parents insisted on a driver, insisted on the timing, insisted on everything being done properly and safely, as if I were still a kid who needed protection.
They always do.
I don't argue anymore. There's no point in wasting energy on something that won't change; even if I turn 60 years old, they'll still worry about my siblings and me.
So I sit in the back seat, posture relaxed but controlled, one arm resting against the door while my fingers tap lightly against the leather. The motion is absent, unconscious. A habit more than anything else.
Outside, the world shifts slowly. Roads narrow. Buildings thin out. Space opens. It's quieter out here, more isolated. Less distraction.
Better.
I don't need noise to think.
