The wide exquisite room was silent, dimly lit by the warm orange glow of the tall lamp beside one of the sleek leather couches. Kant tood in front of the telephone stand in the living room, wearing a white cardigan as though it could shield him from everything that weighed heavy inside.
He stared at it for a few seconds before finally reaching for it. His hand trembled slightly as he began to dial Sylan's number from memory — each number pressed with quiet hesitation.
He pressed the cordless phone to his right ear.
The line rang once.
Then twice.
Then—click.
"Hello?" came a familiar voice.
Kant almost exhaled in relief—until he realized it wasn't Sylan.
It was his mother.
"Good evening, ma'am. It's—uh—it's Kant. Is Sylan available?" His voice tried to sound polite, neutral, but the crack of nervous hope laced each word.
There was a long silence.
Then her voice, flat and cool, responded.
"Why are you calling? Haven't you already done enough?"
Kant felt his throat tighten. "I... I just wanted to know how he's doing. After the accident. That's all."
"That's all?" she said, her voice rising just slightly — laced with bitter restraint. "Do you have any idea what he's been through? Whenever he's with you, nothing good ever comes out of it"
"Ma'am, please, I never meant to hurt—"
"Kant." Her voice was sharp now, cutting. "You want to help? Leave him alone. Let him be. My son doesn't need you confusing him again."
A pause.
Then—click.
The line went dead.
Kant slowly lowered the phone back into its cradle. His knuckles were white from the grip.
He stood there for a while, frozen, his mind spinning, his heart heavy with rejection.
Then, in one slow breath, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, the soft thump of his head against the paint the only sound in the room.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees.
Inside, Kant sat in the dark, quietly falling apart.