Aaron
The weight of my father’s silence presses against me as I pour bourbon into two crystal glasses, the rich amber liquid swirling like molten fire under the soft glow of the living room lamp. Each drop feels deliberate, a distraction from the charged atmosphere that wraps around us. The air is thick, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension that seems to seep into the walls, the furniture, even the faint crackling of the fire in the massive fireplace a few feet to my right. I glance at the glasses, their polished surfaces catching the light, and try to focus, but my thoughts churn, unsettled and restless.
Frederick Wilburn sits on the couch, his posture as rigid as ever, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips like he’s amused by my discomfort. His suit is immacula
