The light was soft and golden when Billy stepped into the hallway, his bare feet soundless on the polished floor.
A hush filled the house — the kind only early mornings could hold.
No voices. No footsteps upstairs.
Just the distant ticking of the living room clock.
His father had already left — the absence felt like a relief.
He passed the parlor slowly, where his mother sat on the couch in her robe, a stack of papers on her lap and glasses perched low on her nose.
She glanced up when she saw him, offering a small smile — warm but unreadable.
"Morning, sweetheart."
Billy nodded lightly.
"Morning, Mom."
She watched him as he passed, the way his shoulders carried quiet weight.
He walked into the dining room.
Camila was already there, seated with her legs crossed in the chair, a half-finished croissant in one hand and her phone in the other, a messy bun perched high on her head.
She looked up.
"Look who woke up before noon," she teased.
