Dinner had softened into a lull of silver clinks and murmured conversation, but Ava still hadn't finished her plate.
The tension that had crackled earlier in the garden was now folded away, hidden under warm lights and the hum of crickets drifting through the open windows.
Rose and Elizabeth moved quietly around the table, clearing dishes with the practiced rhythm of those who knew the silence between people sometimes said more than the words.
The clink of ceramic and silver was softened by the hush of cloth napkins and the occasional polite "excuse me."
The air felt dense—not heavy, but layered, like something unsaid was threading through the stillness.
Julie remained seated beside Roman, her posture relaxed, her hand resting near his on the table.
As Rose leaned in to take her plate, Julie shifted slightly, her fingers brushing Roman's shoulder.
He murmured something low under his breath that made her laugh softly—the kind of laugh Ava used to envy. Light, rooted. Easy.
