She was looking at the window when he came in.
The thin morning light. The city beyond the blinds, indifferent and starting.
She turned when she heard him.
"Close the door," she said.
He closed it.
Sat in the chair beside her.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
That was the thing about his mother. She had never needed to fill silence. She had always understood that some things took time to arrive and rushing them produced something worse than waiting.
He had learned that from her.
He had learned most of the important things from her.
"You look like him," she said finally.
Seren looked at her. "Like Dad."
"Around the eyes. When you're tired." She studied him. "He had the same way of managing everything right up until he couldn't." A pause. "Don't do that. Don't wait until you can't."
"I'm not—"
"Seren." Her voice was gentle. Not a reprimand. Just his name, said in the way she'd said it his whole life when she wanted him to hear something. "I know what I'm saying."
