As Thomas Williams handled the formalities for his son's discharge, Helen followed him out of the hospital with a heart that refused to settle. The corridor felt too long, too quiet, as though every step was giving her more time to think, and that was precisely the problem. When they finally reached Silas's apartment, she moved through the familiar space like a stranger, her eyes lingering on details she had ignored before. The neatly folded doremon printed blanket on the sofa. The extra pair of fluffy slippers by the door. Traces of someone else's presence, gentle and unobtrusive, yet unmistakable.

Helen sat down slowly, pressing her palms together to stop their trembling. She told herself she was being unreasonable. Thomas had already said it, calmly and firmly, the way he always did. Let things happen. Do not interfere unless it is necessary. Silas was not a child anymore. But a mother's heart did not obey logic or discipline, no matter how many years her husband had spent in uniform or how composed he remained now.