Yet when he returned home, he walked softly, almost apologetically, as if noise itself might awaken memories he could no longer survive.
Because his son had stopped speaking.
Ethan was six years old when Margaret passed away.
At the hospital, he didn’t scream.
He didn’t cry.
He simply… went quiet, as if someone had reached inside him and turned the volume of his soul all the way down.
Doctors labeled it trauma.
Therapists promised improvement with time.
Charles spared no expense.
He hired the best specialists.
Bought shelves of toys no child could possibly use.
But what Ethan needed most—his father—was the one thing missing.
Charles couldn’t bring himself to sit with his son’s pain. Every time he looked into Ethan’s eyes, he saw the same loss staring back at him, magnified and unbearable.
Two years slipped by.
Ethan ate. Slept. Grew taller.
But his voice never returned.
That evening, Charles was obligated to host a lavish reception for business partners whose patience was thin and expectations enormous.
The mansion lit up once more.
Classical music drifted through the rooms.
Laughter rang out, sharp and careless.
Perfume and wine thickened the air.
Crystal glasses clinked in rehearsed harmony.