The morning broke soft and pale, with streaks of gold brushing the horizon, when Ewan found himself standing in John's modest living room again, ready to leave. His bag was slung over his shoulder, heavy not the sack, but with the weight of confessions he had been saddled with yesterday.
Ella fussed around him briefly, smoothing the collar of his shirt like a mother would a child. "Safe journey, Ewan," she said, her voice light but her eyes troubled.
He nodded, murmured a thank you, though his chest felt constricted.
John stood a little away, arms folded, his frame backlit by the soft light seeping through the open window. His silence wasn't awkward—it was something deeper, heavier.
For a moment, Ewan wondered if words would even reach between them.
He lingered a second longer, their eyes catching. Something unspoken passed in that silence, something only two men burdened with truth could understand. Regret, acknowledgement, perhaps a faint thread of reluctant respect.
