Saturday morning smelled like rain and something that felt like a new beginning, though nothing was really new yet. The sky hung low over the rooftops, heavy with clouds, and the dripping from the eaves fell in rhythm with the kitchen clock. I sat at the table, staring into my tea as the milk slowly settled at the bottom, forming patterns that looked like little maps—maps that led nowhere.
Mom came in, her hair in a loose bun, sleeves rolled up. She set down a bowl of pancakes and said:
"At least eat one. You need strength."
"I'm not hungry," I mumbled without looking up.
"Then eat for me," she replied calmly, pouring herself coffee. "Or for Tom. Or for yourself—whatever feels least exhausting right now."
I took a fork, stabbed the dough, cut off a piece. It tasted like vanilla, like home—and like guilt.
"He was here yesterday," she said after a while. Her voice held no accusation, just quiet observation. "Alaric."
I looked up. "You saw him?"
