The house smelled like rot.
Not the kind that came from spoiled food or damp walls—this was deeper. Old smoke soaked into yellowing paint. Alcohol souring the air. Something broken that had been broken for a long time.
He slammed the door so hard the frame rattled.
"Useless," the man snarled, pacing the living room like a caged animal. His hands shook—not from remorse, never that... but from withdrawal and fury tangled together. Empty bottles littered the floor. Pills rattled in a half-crushed packet on the table.
His wife knelt near the sink, quietly wiping blood from the tile with a rag that had once been white. Her face was turned away, hair hanging like a curtain. She didn't speak. She'd learned that silence hurt less.
The boy was locked in the bedroom. Crying had stopped a while ago. That worried her more than the sound ever did.
The man grabbed a cigarette with hands that still wanted to hit something and stormed outside, slamming the door behind him.
