A house without warmth

The Stevenson mansion had never felt so hollow.

Miss Dora's favorite armchair still sat in the corner of the drawing room, her knitting basket tucked by its side, as if she might return at any moment. But the truth was buried deep in the earth, along with her gentle hands and soft voice.

David stood by the window that morning, rain misting against the panes, hands braced against the sill. His reflection looked pale, worn, hollow‑eyed—an echo of the man he used to be. Behind him, the house was silent except for the faint creak of floorboards and the tiny, hiccupping sobs of a child too young to understand death, yet already tasting its cruelty.

Little Harry sat curled up on the couch, blanket bunched around him, his toy rabbit crushed to his chest. His cheeks were streaked with tears; his nose ran, but he didn't notice. At three and a half, all he knew was that Grandma Dora, who smelled like bread and lavender, wasn't here anymore—and everyone said she wouldn't ever come back.

"Dad?" His voice was so small it trembled in the air.

David didn't turn. He stared out at the gray gardens, watching raindrops race down the glass. He felt hollow. Numb. Every word felt too heavy, every movement unbearable.

Harry slid off the couch on unsteady legs and padded across the room, little feet whispering against the cold marble. He tugged softly at David's sleeve.

"Dad… wanna… hug," he mumbled, lip trembling.

David swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the horizon. His throat burned, but no words came. He wanted to kneel, to gather Harry close, to promise him safety, love, the warmth Dora used to provide. But grief was a cruel weight that locked his arms at his sides.

The door opened with a swish of silk.

Kay entered, her perfume sharp and artificial, a jarring contrast to the rain‑washed air. Her heels clicked against the floor as she swept in, robe trailing.

"You're still in here?" she asked, tone feather‑light but edged with impatience.

David didn't move.

Kay's gaze landed on Harry, red‑eyed and sniffling. "Still crying? Oh, for heaven's sake, stop it already. You're not a baby."

Harry shrank back, clutching his rabbit tighter. He was a baby, only three and a half, but he didn't dare say so.

"Kay," David rasped without turning.

"What?" she asked, arching a brow.

He wanted to tell her to stop, to soften. But the words dissolved on his tongue.

Days turned into weeks.

The house remained draped in gloom. David stopped going to work. He would wake late, skip breakfast, and retreat to his study, closing the door behind him. Some days he sat in silence, staring at the wall. Other days he drank, glass after glass, chasing numbness.

Harry toddled through the halls like a little ghost. Sometimes he crawled under tables and whispered to his rabbit, "Grandmma come back soon?" But Grandma never answered.

When he waddled to David's study and knocked with his tiny knuckles, the door never opened.

"Dad? Wanna play blocks?" Silence.

"Dad? I good boy." Silence.

Eventually he'd toddle away, shoulders slumping, thumb creeping back into his mouth.

Kay grew sharper, harsher. The sweetness she once performed like a play was gone. With David locked away in grief, she ruled the house on her own terms.

One afternoon, Harry spilled his milk. The cup shattered, white liquid pooling across the floor.

"You little brat!" Kay hissed, rising so fast her chair screeched back.

Harry froze, lower lip quivering. "Sorryy…"

"You're always sorry! Look at this mess!"

She slapped his tiny hand. Harry's rabbit slipped from his grasp as he wailed, stumbling back.

"Pick it up! Now!"

His small fingers fumbled over the shards. A sharp edge nicked his thumb, and he yelped, tears flooding his face.

Upstairs, David sat at his desk, staring at an old photograph of Miss Dora holding baby Harry. He heard nothing—the breaking cup, the slap, the cries. He was somewhere far away, drowning in memories.

Night fell heavy over the mansion.

Harry crept into his father's study, thumb bandaged with a clumsy strip of tissue. He stood in the doorway, too little to even reach the handle without tiptoes.

"Dad?" he whispered.

David turned slowly, eyes unfocused. "Harry… what are you doing here?"

"She… Kay… she scold… I hurt uh.. finger…" Harry lifted his tiny hand, eyes wide and wet. "Dad, you mad?"

David stared at him, seeing the tremor in those little shoulders. Something flickered in his chest—anger, grief, guilt—but it was buried under layers of exhaustion.

"You shouldn't bother me now," he said quietly, turning back to the photograph.

Harry's eyes widened, his soft mouth quivering. "But… I need hug…"

David didn't answer. The boy lingered for a long moment, then padded away, the door clicking shut behind him.

Weeks bled into months.

David became a shadow drifting through the halls. Meals went uneaten. Conversations died before they began. Even when Kay raised her voice—sometimes even her hand—David seemed miles away.

One evening, Kay dragged Harry by the arm across the hall because he had colored on the wall. His cries echoed off the marble.

"Bad boy! Look what you did!" she hissed, shaking him.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he sobbed.

"You'll be sorrier when I—"

David's study door opened. He stood in the doorway, eyes dark and hollow. Kay froze. Harry's tear‑streaked face lit up with desperate hope.

But David only closed his eyes, pressed a hand to his forehead, and turned away, retreating back into his silence.

Harry's tiny heart cracked a little more.

The mansion was colder than ever now. The warmth that once came from Miss Dora's laughter was gone. The father who once lifted Harry high into the air and spun him around was a distant shadow. And Kay no longer hiding her cruelty ruled the house like a bitter queen.

That night, Harry sat by his window, legs too short to dangle properly from the chair, staring up at the moon with his rabbit clutched tight.

"Grandma," he whispered, words lisped by babyish lips, "come back… Daddy don't smile no more. I get scared she scares me…"

Down the hall, David poured another drink, Miss Dora's voice echoing in his mind:

Protect him, David. No matter what happens, protect Harry.

But David didn't move.

And so, the house remained a place without warmth, without safety, without the love it once held.