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Chapter Two: Cracks Beneath the Surface
The clinking of spoons hadn't yet faded when the silence was pierced by a deep voice:
"Cain."
It was his father, Roman Numéro. His tone sounded calm, but it was pulled tight by a thread of tension, as if every word carried a boulder of withheld thoughts. His eyes—hard and weary—locked onto Cain's with a weight heavier than reproach.
Cain didn't look up. He continued chewing his bite deliberately slowly, as if the voice had come from another table—or another world.
Roman tapped his fingers once on the wooden table.
"Your behavior lately..." he paused, as though the words weighed on his tongue, "is like a cold that refuses to thaw. This house is for the living, not for shadows and fog."
Cain responded without lifting his gaze, his tone so cold it bordered on indifference:
"As long as I'm breathing, I'm here. Isn't that enough?"
No apology. No defiance. Just emptiness. And somehow, that was more provocative than anger.
Roman's face flushed faintly, his jaw tightened. He was about to snap, but Cain spoke first, his voice a quiet kind of venom:
"Being present doesn't mean I'm part of your scene... or that I ever wanted to be."
He finally raised his eyes—not to challenge, but to look straight through his father, as if he wasn't really there.
"Stop expecting hollow warmth from me. This isn't a play... and I'm not your actor."
The silence that followed was thick, as if the air itself held its breath. Even Cain's siblings fell quiet, sensing a crack splintering through the room.
Roman leaned forward, voice low but firm:
"Watch your tone."
Before he could say more, a soft, hesitant whisper broke in from the other side:
"Roman... please."
It was Elin, his mother. Her hand gently settled on her husband's arm, her eyes darting between father and son, filled more with pleading than comprehension.
"Maybe he's just... tired. He's going through something, and he needs a little space."
Her voice was like a fragile thread trying to mend a storm-torn fabric.
Cain rose from his seat.
The chair scraped against the floor like a sword being unsheathed.
When he spoke, his voice was deeper than usual—feigned heaviness, as if to mask the fragility beneath:
"I don't need space... I just no longer find myself here."
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...Then he left.
No door slammed. No hurried footsteps. Just a silent withdrawal, like light fading from a room with no windows.
For a long moment, the kitchen sat in weighted stillness. The usual background noises of daily life still hummed—timidly, as if afraid to disturb the fracture just made.
Céline, the sister just younger than Cain, slowly raised her head. She stared at the chair he had left behind, still swaying faintly from his sudden departure. Her voice was soft, almost to herself:
"Sometimes I wonder... if we hurt him in ways we never realized."
There was a long pause before Roman finally replied. He sighed—a heavy sound drawn from a chest burdened with failure.
"Don't trouble yourself, Céline. Whatever's wrong with him... it didn't start with us."
Then he turned to his wife, seeking either confirmation or comfort in their shared helplessness:
"Right, Elin?"
Elin didn't answer immediately. She gazed toward the stairs Cain had climbed, as if waiting for him to come back—or for some answer to descend in his place.
"I don't know, Roman..." she finally whispered, her voice frail, as though admitting defeat.
"He's been slipping away from us bit by bit, and we just... looked the other way. Each day he drifted further, until now we barely recognize the person living under our roof."
"It's a kind of solitude that doesn't resemble anything else," Céline added, her voice barely audible. Then she pulled little Evie, their youngest sister, into her lap and began playing with her braid, trying to soften the tense air.
Across the table, Darian—the younger brother—spoke with a blend of sarcasm and disinterest:
"Tsk... If he's comfortable that way, why bother? He's not hurting anyone. Let him live how he wants."
Elin turned to him sharply, her voice edged with a mother's worry:
"Darian! We don't speak about your brother like that."
"But I'm not sugarcoating it, Mom." he replied, turning his face aside. "Whenever he's around, it feels like a burden. He doesn't talk, doesn't smile, doesn't even look at us. We're all trying to live... and he's just a shadow in the corner."
Céline glanced at him, a faint, mournful smile touching her lips:
"Maybe that's just it. Maybe he doesn't see himself as part of this place anymore."
She kept twirling Evie's braid between her fingers, then murmured, still not lifting her gaze:
"Sometimes I think... maybe he was never really one of us. Maybe he doesn't even belong in this world."
Silence settled again. Elin had no response, and Roman had nothing left to say.
And on the table, the piece of bread Cain had left behind still lay there... cold, as though waiting for someone who would never return.
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