His twins, Noah and Clara, move through pain with stubborn grace. Three years ago, they ran. Three years ago, Marcus was driving, distracted, chasing a deal. The crash rewrote everything. Doctors said the damage was permanent. He paid anyway, because guilt never checks the price.
His wife, Serene, drifts through the house like a shadow. Pills line her nightstand. They exist beside each other, sharing grief but never touching it. Even the staff speaks softly. Thomas, the driver, still believes in faith. Marcus no longer mocks it—he’s too tired.
Work is his refuge. The car stops at a red light, and a gentle knock interrupts his thoughts. He waves it off until Thomas lowers the window. “What do you need, son?”
“Food,” a thin voice answers.
Thomas hands over his lunch. Marcus glances over—and freezes. The boy is barefoot, painfully thin, but his eyes are clear. He accepts the food with reverence. “Thank you.” Then he looks straight at Marcus and whispers, “Your kids will be okay.”
Marcus’s breath catches. No one knows his fear like that. He snaps, “Drive,” but the words follow him all day like a pulse he can’t quiet.