to form words that never came. I waited, hoping for an explanation, an apology, a glimpse of the father I needed. But he remained silent, trapped in a fortress of his own making, leaving me to navigate the ruins of the day alone.
The house felt oppressive, each room a reminder of conversations left unsaid, moments unlived. My father’s silence was like a second skin, suffocating and inescapable. I found solace in the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the rhythmic ticking of the clock, the mundane sounds that filled the void his words should have occupied.
