It was the end of year 2043.
New Year's Eve should have been a time of celebration, a moment to welcome fresh beginnings with hope and joy. But in the Nightingale household, the atmosphere was thick with dread.
"He should be back by now," Alice whispered, her eyes vacant as she sat motionless on the sofa. Her fingers trembled slightly until Douglas gently covered them with his own.
"He may be late," Douglas said, his voice steady despite the worry etched in the lines around his eyes. "The border regions are unpredictable this time of year."
Alice turned to him, her expression fracturing. "B-but... if he's late... does that mean he's caught?" The question hung in the air like a physical thing, the fear they'd both been avoiding for months finally given voice.
"Shh, don't say that," Douglas murmured, drawing her closer. His lips pressed into a thin line as he struggled to maintain composure for them both.
