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The house woke slowly, the way it always had.
The faint hum of the refrigerator. The creak in the third floorboard down the hall when the wind shifted just enough. The sigh of the kettle as it cooled on the counter.
Only now, there was no voice singing off-key from the shower, stumbling over the high notes and getting the words wrong in a way that used to make Tom roll his eyes and smile anyway. No bare feet padding down the hallway, hair damp, stealing a kiss from the corner of his mouth while the kettle boiled.
No murmured morning, love.
The silence was steady. Unforgiving.
Tom sat at the kitchen table with his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, its handle warm against his fingers. Steam curled in thin ribbons into the cool morning air, dissipating almost as soon as it formed. He’d made tea fifteen minutes ago, the way he always did- pouring it without thinking, without ever remembering that lately he rarely drank it. It sat there now, cooling, growing that faint skin on the surface, the way it often did.
He stared at the swirls of steam until they vanished, the smell of it mixing with the faint scent of toast he’d burnt earlier without meaning to.
A shadow shifted in the corner of his vision.
He glanced toward the hallway just as the sound came- small, hesitant footfalls, the sort of steps that tried not to wake the rest of the house even though there was no one left to disturb. The faint dragging of fabric followed, soft and deliberate, whispering against the hardwood with each movement.
Lilith’s blanket- faded pink, with a stitched rabbit in the corner that had begun to fray- swept behind her as she shuffled in. She had been five for exactly two months now. People had started saying she was too big for a blanket. Tom never corrected them, never explained that sometimes she clung to it like a lifeline, that it wasn’t just warmth she was keeping wrapped around her.
Her wavy dark hair stuck up in soft tufts, one stubborn curl falling right into her eyes. Tom’s breath caught at the sight- there were pieces of her face, the slope of her nose, the stubborn set of her mouth, that echoed someone else entirely. Pieces his heart wasn’t ready for.
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her fist, yawned wide enough to squeak, and without hesitation climbed into the chair beside him, blanket still gathered around her like a small fortress.
“Morning, little star,” Tom murmured, forcing his voice to be soft, steady.
He reached over and smoothed that stray curl away from her face, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
She tugged the blanket tighter around her small frame, the movement almost defensive.
“Papa?”
“Yes, love?”
“When is Daddy getting home?”
It was the same question every morning. She never forgot to ask. She never stopped hoping.
Tom’s fingers tightened around the mug, thumb pressing hard into the ceramic until he could feel the sharp ridge of a chip against his skin.
“Not today, Lily-flower.”
She tilted her head, brows knitting together, and the blanket slipped from one of her shoulders.
“Tomorrow, then?”
He swallowed, the lump in his throat sharp and unmoving.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Her small shoulders relaxed. She reached for a piece of toast from the plate between them, biting into the corner without a second thought, crumbs tumbling down into her lap. Her trust was whole, uncracked- untouched by the reality Tom carried like a weight between his ribs.
He couldn’t bear to look at her for too long.
Tom rose, carrying the mug to the sink. He turned on the tap, letting the rush of water drown the sound of his breathing. He rinsed the cup slowly, carefully, as if the simple act required his full attention. The sound of porcelain against metal rang too loud in the stillness, echoing in the space where a laugh used to be.
Behind him, Lilith swung her legs under the chair, humming softly to herself- not the same song, never the same song- and for a fleeting, fragile second, he wished she’d pick the wrong notes. He wished she’d sing off-key, just once, so he could close his eyes and pretend.
But the only thing that filled the kitchen was the quiet scrape of toast against her teeth, and the sound of water running long after the mug was clean.
The kitchen was loud in the way only mornings in their house could be- not with the sterile hum of appliances, but with life. The clatter of cutlery against plates, the scrape of a chair leg on the tiles, the faint hiss from the kettle that had just boiled. Over it all came the bright, unguarded sound of Harry’s laugh, spilling out like sunlight into every corner.
Lilith was perched in his lap, her legs dangling over his knee, toes curling against his shin. She had jam smeared across her cheek, a smudge on the tip of her nose, and a sticky little hand wrapped around a piece of toast that looked more licked than eaten. Her hair was wild from sleep, sticking up in every direction despite Harry’s earlier attempts to smooth it down.
“You’ve got more toast on you than in you, Lil,” Harry said, his voice soft but threaded with amusement.
He tilted his head to press a kiss into her hair, inhaling the faint scent of shampoo and something purely her.
Lilith giggled, holding the toast higher as if that might prove she’d eaten plenty. A crumb tumbled onto Harry’s jumper, sticking there.
“And you,” Harry added, looking up at Tom with mock severity, “are not helping.”
Tom was leaning against the counter, arms folded, the edge of the surface digging into his hip. The steam from the kettle drifted past him in lazy spirals, warming the air. He’d been watching the two of them for the better part of ten minutes, content to stay quiet, to just let the scene unfold.
“I’m admiring your parenting technique,” Tom replied, smirking faintly.
Harry arched an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
“Oh, are you?”
Tom shrugged, pretending nonchalance.
“It’s very… hands-on.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but the smile was there again, tugging at his mouth. It was always there when he looked at her- not forced, not even deliberate, but instinctive. The kind of smile that started somewhere deep and pulled everything in him upwards with it.
Lilith reached up suddenly and patted Harry’s face, leaving a faint stickiness on his cheek.
“You’ve got jam,” she informed him with great seriousness.
“Oh, I’ve got jam?” Harry said, eyes wide in exaggerated shock, “And where did that come from, hmm?”
She grinned, the gap where her bottom tooth had just fallen out making her look even younger.
Tom’s smirk softened into something quieter, something almost reverent. He watched as Harry leaned in again, murmuring something only Lilith could hear. She burst into laughter, throwing her arms around his neck, toast and all. Harry didn’t seem to care that the sleeve of his jumper was getting jammed in the process- he just held her, grinning into her hair.
Tom’s fingers tightened slightly against his folded arms. There was a strange ache in his chest, not sharp but deep, like a bruise pressed from the inside. Moments like this had a way of burning themselves into him- not just because they were beautiful, but because he knew, even while standing in them, that they would be the ones he replayed in his head when the kitchen was quiet again.
Lilith’s laughter rang out again, and Tom glanced away for a moment, swallowing the thought before it could grow too heavy.
When he looked back, Harry was brushing crumbs from her lap, murmuring, “All right, little star, time to finish your breakfast before you become part toast yourself.”
She wriggled in protest, giggling harder, but Harry just gathered her closer, pressing another kiss to her temple. The sunlight caught in his hair, in the green of his eyes when he looked up, and for one fleeting, perfect second, Tom thought he’d never seen anything so heartbreakingly alive.
The walk to the shop was short. It always had been- just two turns from their street and across the road with the faded zebra crossing. Still, Lilith insisted on wearing her yellow cardigan, the one with sleeves fraying at the cuffs and a loose thread near the left pocket that Tom kept meaning to fix. The colour had dulled a little with washing, but it still made her look like she was carrying a pocket of sunlight with her wherever she went.
Her socks didn’t match- one with tiny stars, the other with pale blue stripes. Harry had always let her choose, no matter how mismatched the result. Tom had thought about telling her to pick a matching pair this morning, but the words hadn’t quite made it past his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to change anything Harry would have left as it was.
They held hands as they walked, her smaller fingers curled tightly around his, swinging their joined hands in a gentle rhythm she set without thinking. Her grip was warm, her palm slightly sticky from the last of her breakfast toast. Every now and then she would glance up at him, squinting against the thin autumn sunlight, and then look away again, content in the quiet.
When they reached the shop, the bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle. The air inside smelled faintly of coffee and the paper of magazines stacked by the counter. Mrs. Taylor, the cashier, was behind the till as usual, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked up when they entered, her eyes crinkling into that smile Tom had come to know- the well-meaning one, equal parts polite and pitying.
“How’s your little family doing, Tom?” she asked, her voice soft but too bright, as though careful handling might keep the words from cutting.
Tom’s answer came without hesitation, smoothed by repetition.
“We’re doing okay.”
It was automatic, so ingrained now that he didn’t need to think about it- and safer than the truth, which was too tangled to fit into the space between a packet of bread rolls and a basket of apples.
Mrs. Taylor nodded, as if reassured, and went back to ringing up the customer before them.
They moved through the aisles slowly, Lilith skipping a little ahead, stopping to point at a packet of biscuits shaped like animals. Tom added them to the basket without comment. Harry would have pretended to debate it, narrowing his eyes at her like it was a great act of negotiation, before inevitably saying yes.
By the time they paid and stepped back outside, the air had cooled, a breeze threading its way down the street and making Lilith pull her cardigan tighter. The sky was the washed-out blue of late morning, clouds hanging low enough that they looked soft enough to touch.
Halfway home, Lilith stopped suddenly, tugging on his hand.
There, in a narrow upstairs window of one of the houses, sat a black cat, its tail curled neatly around its paws. Its green eyes blinked slowly at them, unbothered by the street below.
“That’s Buttons,” Lilith announced with certainty, as if she had known the cat all her life.
Tom followed her gaze, offering the smallest of smiles.
“Buttons, hmm?”
“Mm-hm.”
She nodded once, decisive.
“When Daddy comes back, can we show him?”
For a moment, the street tilted- or maybe it was just Tom’s chest, the air catching there.
He forced the smile wider, though it didn’t quite make the journey to his eyes.
“Yeah, love. We can.”
She beamed at him, satisfied, before skipping ahead to balance on the edge of the pavement, arms outstretched for balance.
Tom let her move a little ahead, keeping the basket in one hand and her safety in his periphery. The cardigan’s yellow bobbed against the grey of the street, and the mismatched socks peeked out with each step.
And for the rest of the walk, the picture of a black cat in a high window followed him- framed in glass, unreachable, watching the world pass it by.
It was raining- not the soft patter of summer showers, but the kind of steady downpour that blurred the world beyond the glass into a smear of grey and silver. The windows were beaded with droplets, each one catching the light from the living room lamps in tiny, shifting reflections. Outside, the street was quiet, the rain swallowing up any sound beyond the walls.
Inside, the air was warm and rich with the scent of the tea Tom had just made, steam curling from the mugs on the tray in his hands.
Harry was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, socks mismatched, curls damp from the earlier walk back from the shop. Lilith stood wobbling in front of him, her tiny fists wrapped tight around his index fingers, her knees slightly bent in the way that made her look like a cautious little bird. She was dressed in the yellow onesie with the duck embroidered on the front- the one Harry loved, the one she was almost too big for.
“All right, ready, Lil?” Harry asked, his voice low and warm with excitement, “One step…”
Tom lingered in the doorway for a second, watching as Harry leaned forward, eyes locked on hers like nothing else in the world existed. Lilith grinned, her cheeks flushed, and shuffled one foot forward.
“…two…”
She let go.
For the smallest fraction of a second, her hands hovered in the air, her balance teetering like the moment before a coin falls. And then- one step. Wobbly. Uncertain. Another step.
And then she tumbled forward, straight into Harry’s arms.
Harry whooped so loudly Tom nearly dropped the tray, the mugs rattling dangerously against the wood.
“She walked! Did you see that? Our Lily-flower walked!”
He gathered her close, laughing into her hair.
“She’s a genius. We’re raising a genius.”
Lilith squealed in delight, clapping her small hands against Harry’s cheeks as if she understood every word. Harry kissed her forehead, then her nose, then buried his face against her shoulder until she wriggled and laughed again.
Tom set the tray down on the coffee table, unable to keep from smiling- the kind that pulled slow and deep at the corners of his mouth. Harry looked up at him from the floor, eyes shining, hair wild, with Lilith perched on his knee like she belonged nowhere else.
“Come on, Tom,” Harry said, still grinning, “You’ve got to see her do it again.”
And Tom did. Over and over, as the rain kept falling against the glass, and the rest of the world stayed far away.
Evenings were always the hardest.
The day had a way of keeping him moving- school drop-offs, errands, work, dishes to wash, laundry to fold- all the little tasks that left no room for thinking too much. But evenings… evenings were slower. Quieter. The light softened, the house settled, and there was nothing left between him and the absence but the sound of his own breathing.
After Lilith’s bath, Tom would sit on the floor beside her bed, legs stretched out, book in hand. She’d be bundled in her pyjamas- the soft cotton ones patterned with tiny moons- her hair damp and curling at the ends. The scent of her shampoo still clung to the air, mingling with the faint lavender of the laundry detergent on her sheets.
He’d start to read, voice low and even, the words pulling pictures into the small room- of far-off lands where the air was always warm and kind princesses ruled with gentle hands.
Every night, he tucked her in with her rabbit- the same one Harry had picked out the day she was born. It was fraying a little now, the fur worn flat in places from years of being held tight. Harry had teased him back then, saying every proper bedtime required a guardian rabbit. Tom hadn’t understood exactly what he meant until later.
Tonight, halfway through the story, Lilith shifted under the blankets. Her small voice cut through the rhythm of his reading.
“Papa?”
He looked up from the page.
“Yes, star?”
She blinked at him, her eyes wide in the low lamplight.
“Can Daddy read next time?”
The air seemed to thin around him, like something in the room had been pulled taut. His fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the book before he set it down in his lap.
He reached out, brushing a damp curl from her forehead, letting his hand rest in her hair a moment longer than usual.
“Maybe next time,” he said softly.
Her face lit with uncomplicated hope.
“Okay.”
It landed like a stone in his chest.
He picked the book back up, his voice steady again, though the words felt heavier in his mouth. She snuggled further under the blanket, her rabbit clutched against her chest, eyes drooping as the story carried them forward.
Tom kept reading- because the story had to be finished, because the ritual mattered, because Harry would have wanted it to.
And when her breathing evened out and the book was closed, he stayed sitting there for a while longer, his hand resting lightly on the blanket where her small form lay- listening to the quiet and wishing it was broken by another voice.
Later, after she’d fallen asleep, Tom lingered in the doorway. The moonlight made her hair gleam dark against the pillow. She looked so much like him when she slept that Tom had to look away.
The park smelled faintly of cut grass and sun-warmed earth, the air holding that late-spring softness that made everything feel lighter. The metal chains of the swing creaked with each push, a steady rhythm that seemed to keep time with the heartbeat of the afternoon.
Harry stood behind Lilith, his hands gripping the swing’s chains just above her small fingers. She was shrieking with delight, her laughter cutting bright and clear through the gentle hum of the park. Her hair- still more curls than waves back then- flew out behind her, catching the sunlight like fine threads of gold and chestnut.
“Higher, Daddy! Higher!” she cried, her legs kicking in the air.
Harry leaned forward, grinning in that unrestrained, wicked way that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Higher? You sure?”
She nodded so hard the swing wobbled.
“All right,” he said, his grin only widening, “hold on tight.”
He gave her a push- not too hard, but enough to make her squeal again as she soared forward, toes pointed to the sky. She tilted her head back to look at him when the swing returned, still laughing, cheeks flushed pink.
Tom sat on a wooden bench a few metres away, his elbows resting on his knees, watching them. The sunlight slanted through the trees, dappled patterns dancing across the grass, and for a moment it caught Harry’s face perfectly- the curve of his smile, the bright green of his eyes, the way a stray strand of hair fell into them.
Lilith’s laughter rose again, Harry’s voice following close behind with some teasing comment Tom couldn’t quite hear over the wind.
And in that second- with Harry leaning into the push, Lilith flying forward into the bright air, the sun warming the back of his neck- Tom thought, this is it.
This was the whole world.
No grander moment, no greater truth. Just the two of them framed against the afternoon light, and the unshakable certainty that if nothing else ever happened, if they could just stay like this forever, it would be enough.
Some nights, Tom almost told her.
The urge came in flashes- sudden, sharp, and unbidden. A thought he’d be carrying without knowing it until it rose up, pressing hard against the back of his throat.
Once, it happened at dinner.
They were sitting across from each other at the table, the soft pool of light from the overhead lamp leaving the rest of the kitchen in shadow. Lilith’s plate was a small scatter of peas, the cut-up pieces of chicken she’d been nudging around with her fork instead of eating. The steam from Tom’s own plate curled upward, fading before it reached the height of his eyes.
Halfway through her absent stirring, she glanced at the chair beside him- the one at the end of the table. The one that was always empty.
“Papa,” she said, her voice small but clear, “why is Daddy’s chair still empty?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed. But it was the first time she’d asked.
Tom’s hand stilled halfway to his mouth. His heart gave that slow, heavy thud that seemed to echo everywhere at once. He opened his mouth before he could stop himself. The truth was there- a raw, unpolished thing, balanced just past his teeth.
It would take only a breath to let it out. One breath, and she’d know.
But then she looked at him.
Her eyes were wide, steady, full of a trust so unguarded it hurt to meet it. Hope sat there too- whole, untouched, like glass that had never been cracked.
And the words inside him splintered.
He swallowed once, hard, feeling the sharp edges of what he didn’t say scraping down his throat. His voice, when it came, was steady enough that it almost convinced him.
“Because he’s not home yet,” Tom said instead.
Lilith nodded, accepting this without question, and went back to rearranging the peas on her plate.
Tom watched her for a long moment, his fork untouched in his hand. Somewhere deep inside, the truth curled in on itself again, waiting for the next time it tried to surface.
The chair stayed empty.
That night, when the house had fallen silent and the only light came from the dim yellow bulb above the cooker, Tom sat on the kitchen floor with his back pressed to the cold cabinets. The tiles beneath him leeched the heat from his body until his bones ached. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them at first, as if that might keep him together.
Then his hands came up to his face.
His breath caught. It felt wrong- like his chest was too small for the storm inside him.
“You should be here,” he whispered into the dark.
The words were small, almost swallowed by the quiet hum of the fridge and the slow, indifferent tick of the clock above the doorway.
He squeezed his eyes shut until it hurt, his fingers digging into his own skin.
“You should be here for her,” he said again, his voice breaking halfway through.
He swallowed hard, but it didn’t clear the tightness in his throat.
“For me.”
The silence didn’t care.
And that was the worst part- it didn’t care.
Tom’s shoulders began to shake before he even realised he was crying. Not the silent kind, not the neat kind. This was jagged, ugly sobbing that tore up his chest and left him gasping for breath. His tears soaked into the heels of his hands, slid down over his wrists, dripping onto his shirt. He folded forward, forehead pressing hard against his knees, because if he didn’t curl in on himself he thought he might shatter.
“I don’t-”
His voice cracked. He stopped, tried again, choking on the words.
“I don’t know how to do this without you.”
It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t dignified. It was desperate, messy, and real. His breath hitched between every few words, and sometimes he couldn’t speak at all, only let out a sound that was closer to a whimper than anything else.
Every sob felt like it was clawing something loose inside him, things he’d shoved down and sealed away for months- years. All the careful apathy he’d been wearing like armour split open under the weight of it. His hands slid down from his face, useless in trying to stop the tears, and he pressed his palms against the cold tile instead, grounding himself in the reality that no one was coming to answer him.
The kitchen felt too big. Too empty.
His voice broke again.
“She needs you.”
He forced the words out like it was his last chance to make them heard.
“And I-”
He stopped, chest heaving, unable to finish, because the truth was too heavy to carry past his lips.
Tom dragged himself into a shallow, shaky breath, but it did nothing to slow the spiral. The fridge hummed on, mechanical and steady, as if mocking him with its indifference. The clock ticked- one second, then another, then another. He imagined each tick as time pulling further and further away from the moment he could’ve had you here.
It felt like drowning without the relief of going under.
When the sobs finally slowed, he stayed there, hunched over on the kitchen floor, his cheek resting on his folded arms. His body ached from the tension, his throat raw from the crying, but his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unfocused, as though if he didn’t move he could somehow hold on to the ghost of you still lingering in the air.
And when the house finally settled into its own quiet breathing again, Tom whispered one last time, so softly it was barely sound at all-
“Please.”
But there was still no answer.
Tomorrow morning, Lilith would ask again. And tomorrow, Tom would say, “Maybe tomorrow.”
Because right now, that was the only truth that didn’t break them both.
-fin-