Anthony sat on the edge of the couch in his dim room, the only light coming from the orange glow of his cigarette. The air was thick with smoke and the heavy weight of his thoughts. Suddenly, a jagged, hollow laugh broke the silence—a sound that bordered on madness—echoing off the cold walls.
He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate, and walked toward the counter. Three framed photos sat there: Anna, baby Lyla, and his mother. He picked up the picture of his mother, his fingers trembling as they brushed the glass. In the photo, she was radiant, wearing the last genuine smile he could remember.
Then, the memories flooded back like a dark tide.
He saw himself as a small boy again, peeking through the crack of his father’s bedroom door. He had gone there to beg his father to help his
