gy that had once pulsed through the walls of their previous home. The days unfolded with the predictable monotony of Edward's solitary explorations and his

if an invisible barrier stood perpetually between them. The easy laughter that had once been a constant soundtrack to Edward's young life seemed to have been swallowed whole by the house's aged walls,

attention already seemingly consumed by some unseen burden, her responses to Edward's tentative greetings vague and distracted. Thomas would retreat behind the broadsheet of the morning newspaper, its rustling pages forming a physical and emotional shield, his replies to Edward's hesitant questions brief, often monosyl

ucent eyes had seemed to follow him as he'd carefully examined her collection of antique dolls with their cracked porcelain faces and missing limbs – tried to share his experience with his parent

, her fingers tracing the rim with a nervous energy. She hadn't looked up, her tone flat and distant, as if Edward were

uld have signified acknowledgment or mere annoyance. "Just be careful up there, Edw

ants of the house were visible only to him and perhaps, in her own way, to Mrs. Gable, whose fleeting expressions of unease he sometimes caught. But he had hoped for a flicker of interest, a shared moment of connection in the strangeness o

ing Edward from their adult world, a world shrouded in hushed tones and unspoken anxieties. Sometimes, drawn by a lonely curiosity and a yearning for connection, he would linger near the closed door, straining his young ears to decipher the muffled cadence of their voices. He couldn

te of barely suppressed frustration creeping into her inflection. "I just don't understand why you i

ubborn resolve. "Because it's the only sensible..." Again, the words faded into an indistinguishable mur

the reasons behind the strained silences and the sharp whispers, but the palpable tension in their voices made his small stomach clench with a vague, unsettling sense of unease. It felt like a storm was brew

enings, the shared stories read aloud before bedtime, the comfortable companionship they had once taken for granted. He missed the feeling of being the unwavering center of their world, the constant focus of their lo

way, seemed to perceive the unspoken sadness that Edward carried within him. He didn't offer empty platitudes or dismiss his concerns as childish fantasies. Instead, he li

d forgotten treasures of the attic. The silence in the house downstairs felt particularly heavy that da

through the grimy windowpanes. "Unhappiness can build walls between pe

d asked, the question laced with a desperate, child

expanse of the grey autumn sky. "Sometimes, the walls get too high, Edward. Sometimes pe

nse of helplessness washing over him. He felt like a small, fragile boat caught in a turbulent storm, tossed abo

scary to voice, a dark premonition that had been growing in the quiet

far beyond his apparent age. "Love... it's a fragile thing, Edward. It needs to be nurtured

e old house's stone walls. He had noticed the way his parents avoided each other's touch, the absence of warmth in their fleeting, almost accidental brushes. The easy affection

ral part of a whole, a family bound together by the invisible but unbreakable threads of love and laughter. Now, he felt like a separate entity, adrift in the echoing silence of a house filled with unspoken words and a growing, chilling sense of loss. The language of silence that