Connor's Impatience

Connor couldn't stand it. The silence after the second knock had stretched, taut and brittle, for what felt like an eternity. It was a silence that hummed with unspoken questions, with the rustle of unseen things just beyond the periphery of their vision. He’d caught Amy’s eye, a flicker of something unreadable in her usually steady gaze, and Laura, bless her sensitive heart, was practically vibrating with a fear that mirrored his own, though she tried to hide it behind a brave, tight smile.

“This is stupid,” Connor muttered, the words a low rumble in his chest. He was standing at the far end of the hallway, the afternoon sun slanting through the dusty panes of the landing window, painting long, distorted shadows on the worn floral carpet. The air in the old house, usually thick with the comforting scent of lavender and wood polish, now seemed to carry a faint, metallic tang, like old pennies or something far less pleasant.

Amy, who had been meticulously examining a loose thread on the runner, straightened up. “What’s stupid, Connor?” Her voice was carefully neutral, but he knew her well enough to hear the edge of apprehension beneath the calm.