The morning came heavy.
Not with thunder, not with rain—
but with silence.
Daniel sat at the edge of his bed, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. The light that spilled through the curtains painted everything in pale gold, but it felt cold against his skin. Every sound in the house—the creak, the sigh, the tick of the clock—seemed to accuse him of something he hadn't yet confessed.
Rebecca moved quietly behind him. Her steps were soft, almost ghostlike, as she gathered her things for the day. Her hands shook when she tied her hair, though she tried to hide it.
He wanted to speak—wanted to tell her that he'd been dreaming again, that the cries of a baby haunted him in the small hours of the night. But each time he tried, the words dissolved in his throat.
"Breakfast is ready," she said finally.
Her voice was calm, too calm. And that frightened him more than anger ever could.
They ate in silence, the sound of clinking spoons filling the emptiness between them. Rebecca stared at her bowl, Daniel at the window. Outside, the world looked deceptively peaceful—the fields stretching out in quiet obedience to the sun.
But peace was a fragile illusion.
"Rebecca," he said at last, his voice rough.
She didn't look up. "Yes?"
"There's something I need to—" He stopped. The words hung there, unfinished, trembling in the space between his guilt and her grief.
But before he could continue, a knock came at the door.
A firm, deliberate knock.
Rebecca's spoon froze midair. Daniel rose, his chest tightening as he crossed the room. He opened the door to find Pastor Gregory standing there, hat in hand, his eyes sharp and kind all at once.
"Morning, Daniel," the pastor greeted softly. "I hope I'm not intruding."
Daniel forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Not at all, Pastor. Please, come in."
The older man stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the small home—the half-eaten breakfast, the untouched second cup of tea, the heaviness in the air.
"I came," the pastor began, "because sometimes the Lord puts a burden on my heart. A name. A feeling." He looked at Daniel, then at Rebecca. "And this morning… it was both of yours."
Rebecca's eyes glistened. Daniel's chest burned.
"Is everything all right?" the pastor asked.
Silence.
Long, aching silence.
Finally, Daniel nodded. "Yes, Pastor. Everything's fine."
But it wasn't.
And all three of them knew it.
The pastor didn't press further. He simply laid a gentle hand on Daniel's shoulder, his eyes searching his soul with something deeper than suspicion—something like sorrow.
"When the heart grows quiet," he said softly, "it's not always peace, my son. Sometimes it's pain too heavy to speak."
And with that, he left.
Daniel stood frozen in the doorway long after he was gone, the wind tugging at his sleeve, whispering what his pride refused to say aloud.
That silence was no longer safety.
It had become his prison.