Dad opens the door.
The night air rushes in—cool and damp from the garden, carrying the faint sweetness of white roses and wet grass. It swirls around their feet, tugging at Mom's dress and slipping past Dad's shoulders.
Outside, the car is already waiting. Dad waits at the doorway, one hand resting on the frame.
Mom turns back. One last time.
She steps toward Silas. Her hand lifts—gentle, slow—and pats his head. Just once. Just lightly. Like he's something precious she's afraid to break.
"Dinner was so good," she says. Her voice is soft, almost wistful. "I didn't know you were such a good cook."
She pauses. Her fingers linger near his hair for a moment longer than necessary. "Next time... you'll have to teach me that special soup recipe."
Silas looks up at her. A soft smile spreads across his lips. He nods. Lightly. Barely.
