He used to be the weather. Not just in the house—he was the house, and the thunder inside it. A man made of sharp corners and heavy steps, always arriving before his voice did, shaking the walls, scattering the light. We learned to live like shadows, quiet, careful, memorizing moods like forecasts. We never knew which way the wind would blow— only that we’d feel it when it did. Now— the storm’s passed. Not with a bang, but a silence so loud it bends the floorboards. The voices that...
