|Gryphon's POV|
|Flashback; Age: 10 Years Old|
The candlelight flickers like it's afraid to breathe in the silence of the dining room, the flames casting golden shadows on walls that have heard too many arguments and not enough apologies, and I sit there—seven years old, my feet swinging above the floor, the napkin tucked too neatly into my collar like I'm something precious, like I'm not just another decoration in this cold, polished space that always smells like lavender and something I can never name.
My father doesn't look up as he cuts his steak with the precision of a surgeon, every movement sharp, efficient, detached, as though the plate in front of him is a battlefield and not a meal, and when the knife squeals against the porcelain, my mother flinches so slightly that anyone
