Osita sat alone in the dining room, the long polished table stretching before him like an accusation.
The food had been arranged neatly by the staff; steaming dishes placed with care, each one positioned thoughtfully.
It was a meal prepared to be eaten, to be enjoyed, to nourish. Yet he only stared at it, unmoving, his fork resting untouched beside his plate, as though the dishes held something rotten instead of nourishment.
His mind refused to stay in the present.
It wandered restlessly, pulling at threads he thought he'd buried.
Without warning, it dragged him backward, years into the past, to a version of the same house that felt warmer, noisier, more alive. The walls had echoed differently then, filled with sounds that weren't just his own footsteps and the quiet efficiency of s
