The morning light in the kitchen felt different now — muted, almost reluctant as it filtered through the tall windows, as if even the sun was hesitant to enter their world. The smell of toast and tea mingled with the faint salt of tears neither of them had shed yet that day. The silence between Adam and Sofia wasn't empty; it was a fragile bridge over a chasm they were both afraid to cross.
Sofia sat at the small breakfast table in a black cardigan over her dress, hair pulled back loosely, her posture poised but fragile. She stirred her tea slowly, as if the sound of the spoon against porcelain could keep her from shattering. Across from her, Adam sat in his white shirt, sleeves rolled, watching her like a man terrified she might slip away.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you to the doctor?" Adam asked for the tenth time, his voice softer than usual, almost hoarse.
