A Crack in the Wall

The silence in the house was a heavy blanket, one Dume had grown accustomed to pulling tighter around himself. It was the kind of silence that amplified the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, each tick a tiny hammer blow against his raw grief. Fen and Fen moved around him like gentle shadows, their kindness a constant, quiet hum that he mostly tried to ignore. He’d perfected the art of being present but absent, a ghost in his own life.

One afternoon, Fen found him in the garden, hunched over a wilting rose bush. It was his mother’s favorite, a deep crimson bloom that used to unfurl its velvety petals towards the sun with a quiet pride. Now, its leaves were curled and brown, mirroring the state of Dume’s own heart.

“It’s not doing too well, is it?” Fen’s voice was soft, careful, as if speaking to a wounded bird. She sat down on the damp grass a little distance away, not intruding, just being there.