Upstairs, just a few steps away from Micah's bed, Darcy stood silently in the hallway outside the half-open door.
He had not meant to eavesdrop. At first, he had only paused when he heard Clyde's voice, low and steady, drifting faintly through the door left slightly open. But then Micah spoke. And Darcy's feet would not move.
The door was ajar. The sound was muffled. Yet the emotion carried through.
Every tremor in Micah's voice. Every broken confession. Every soft attempt Clyde made to comfort him.
Darcy lowered his gaze. He knew Micah too well.
He knew how soft-hearted he was. How he carried responsibility like a habit, as if the suffering of others naturally belonged on his shoulders. Micah blamed himself easily…right, too easily. If someone was hurt, he would search for his own mistake first. If something ended badly, he would question what he could have done differently.
