When I open the door, Caelix’s toys are scattered across the floor like landmines. The place smells like oatmeal and floor cleaner. The kind of smell you associate with trying to hold it together.
Troka stops just inside the threshold.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t sit.
Just stands there, like he's afraid the walls will reject him.
“Sit,” I order, pointing to the couch.
He obeys.
He looks too big for it now. Like the frame might crack just trying to contain him. His knees bump the coffee table. His head nearly touches the wall-hanging above him.
“Do I get yelled at now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“No.”
“Pity then?”
I toss him a blanket. “You get soup.”
He catches it without looking up. “Why?”
“Because I’m not gonna let you rot. Not on my watch.”
His hands clench around the edge of the blanket.
“And after the soup?”
“You sleep.”
“And after that?”
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is—I don’t know.
I don’tknowwhat comes next.
All I know is that when I see him like this, quiet and hurting andmine, something in me clicks into place. Like a puzzle piece I’ve been hiding under the rug finally rolling into view.
We don’t talk after that.
I give him the soup.
He eats it.
Silent.
Grateful.
Then he curls onto the couch—barely fitting—and passes out mid-sentence while asking if Caelix still does that weird grumble-snore thing when he’s teething.
And I stand there for a long time, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
The soft rumble of a man too exhausted to guard himself anymore.
