Evening settled heavily over the house, as if someone had thrown a blanket of gray felt across the rooms.
The kitchen still smelled of herbs and broth, but the dining table had been cleared. Two glasses of water remained, reflecting the lamp's light like small moons.
Mom was washing dishes quietly, Tom murmuring into his headset, commenting on some game only he understood.
I wanted to slip past her with my plate, soundless, transparent.
"Lina?" Dad said.
He sat at the head of the table, shirt collar open, sleeves rolled up, newspaper neatly folded beside him. His gaze was calm—too calm.
This kind of calm was worse than anger. It saw through me, as if it could sort through the thoughts I didn't want to show.
"Please sit down."
Two simple words that felt like a command.
I put my plate in the sink, wiped my hands on my pants, and sat across from him. My fingers automatically found the chain under my sweater. The metal was cool and familiar, like a second pulse.
