The café smelled like polished wood, strong coffee, and perfume. Too perfect. Too clean. It made me restless.
I sat at the table across from my parents, staring at the untouched cup in front of me. The steam curled upward, soft and fleeting, but I had no appetite for it. My hands stayed folded on my lap, tight, controlled.
“You are not getting younger, Cassian.”
My mother’s words dropped between us like stones into still water. Her tone was smooth, practiced, but I could feel the sharpness beneath. She never raised her voice. She didn’t need to.
“You are not getting any younger, Cassian.”
Her words came out like a judgment, wrapped in concern. My father sat beside her, silent, but his silence was no less heavy. He had the look he always wore when he agreed with her but didn’t want to
