The grand chandelier above the dining table flickered softly, casting gold-tinted reflections on the polished surface below. Plates of roasted duck, creamy potatoes, and fresh greens were spread neatly before them — an exquisite dinner prepared by the house maids as always.
But the room was quiet.
Kant sat at the head of the table, his posture straight but distant. He barely touched his food, only poking at it now and then with his fork. Marin sat across from him, her hands resting gently on her lap, her eyes occasionally flicking toward him.
She knew not to speak tonight.
The weight in the air was too thick. The grief still too fresh.
Tam's death hadn't left Kant. Not really. Even though his face didn't show much, Marin could tell — her brother was still trying to process it all. The silence around him was heavier than usual, and tonight, she respected it.
Kant reached for his glass and drank a slow gulp of water. The sound of the ice clinking inside echoed faintly in the room. He then set the glass down, pushed back his chair gently, and stood to his feet.
The plates on his side remained mostly untouched.
He didn't say a word. Just gave Marin a light nod — one she returned silently — and walked out of the dining room without another glance.
The soft patter of his footsteps faded as he climbed the stairs toward his room.
Marin remained seated for a while longer, staring down at her own plate. She moved her fork absentmindedly through the half-eaten meal. The taste didn't matter anymore.
After a few quiet minutes, she finally rose, her gown brushing against the floor. Without a word, she exited the room, leaving the maids to clear the dishes behind them.
The house returned to silence — only the ticking of the antique clock in the hallway remained.
Tomorrow might bring some noise again.
Back in Kant's room, He sat on the edge of his bed as the quietness of the night pressed in around him. The soft hue of light came from the big desk lamp beside his bed, casting a soft glow over his fingers as he pulled open the bottom drawer of his cabinet.
From within, he retrieved a thick, old photo album — its leather edges frayed, the surface worn and coated in a light veil of dust. He blew gently across the cover, and the dust lifted to the air.
He opened it slowly, the pages stiff from disuse.
The first photos were of him and Marin, back when they were toddlers. Faces still round with baby fat, smiles too big for their cheeks. They were on swings, one beside the other, laughing with no idea how fragile joy could be. Kant let out a soft breath, the corner of his lips curling ever so slightly.
Beside it — a photo he'd seen a thousand times.
Their mother.
Her arms clasping both him and Marin tightly against her. She had the warmest eyes, the most radiant smile. Her long ebony hair flowed freely behind her, caught mid-motion in the frame. He still remember the the floral scent of her deodorant, almost hear her humming while she watered the garden.
Marin looked so much like her. The same jawline. The same way her eyes curved when she smiled. Except Marin's hair was shorter, and a soft brown.
Their mother had died years ago. An illness, their father had said. That was all they were ever told.
After her death, the world had changed — from warm to cold, from bright to gray. Their father, busy with his duties as Mayor, had tried. He really had. But even as a child, Kant could sense how much weight their father carried.
He had tried to be there for them as much as he could but maybe it wasn't enough,until they grew mature enough to learn to accept that things weren't going to be the same anymore. Even if their father couldn't say it, they saw through his actions.
A whole town in one hand. Two grieving children in the other.
Some things just slipped.
Kant turned a few more pages. Empty.
There hadn't been family pictures after that.
Then — he found the school section. Events -gamings, sports, award-winnings and club get-togethers,schoolmates and classmates filled with scattered joy. Laughter frozen in glossy print. His fingers stilled on a photo.
Sylan.
They had their arms around each other, cheek to cheek, both mid-laugh. Sylan's smile was the brightest thing in the whole page, wide and fearless. Kant looked… truly happy in it. Something he hadn't believed was possible back then, something he hadn't thought was still in him— not until Sylan showed him how to genuinely smile again.
There were a few more photos of them, moments of young love tucked between class trips and school events and private meet-ups. They had both agreed to keep every photo.
He stared at them in silence.
It still hurt. Not in the way it did when they first ended, but in a quieter, duller way — like pressing a bruise that had never fully healed. Sylan had moved on. Kant could see that clearly now even though he still badly wanted to fix things.
Still, the memories were real. They were his.
He closed the album gently and set it down beside him. The room was quiet, but his chest was full — with loss, with love, and with the unspoken wish that things could've turned out differently.
He leaned back on the headboard of the bed, eyes open to the ceiling.
Some goodbyes are loud. Others sit quietly in albums, waiting to be remembered.