There was a pause, a
soft sigh that seemed to fill the kitchen. “I’ll be home late tonight. You can take them to the park if you want. I’ll pick up some soup on my way back.”
I smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Sure thing.” I heard the faint click of his door closing in the background, a sound that would become a familiar rhythm in the weeks that followed.
When I arrived at Daniel’s house that afternoon, the front door was ajar, the old brass knob gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
The hallway smelled faintly of pine cleaner and a hint of something else, something sweet and metallic, like the lingering scent of a candle that had long since burned out.
Emily ran to me first, her small hands clutching a stuffed rabbit that was missing an ear. “Mummy!” she squealed, the word slipping out with the enthusiasm only a four‑year‑old can muster.
