Family House (Part 1)

The living room was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

The house, once filled with warmth and laughter, now felt empty. The lights were dim, and the air carried a certain heaviness, an unspoken sorrow that had settled in over the past month.

Ethan's mother, Margaret, sat by the small table near the window, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of a porcelain teacup.

She was a beautiful woman, though the years had started to show in the fine lines around her deep-set eyes.

The light from the television flickered across her face, but she wasn't watching — her gaze was fixed on the window, lost in thought.

It had been a long time since she had last seen her son. Too long.

On the large couch in the center of the room, Ethan's father, Harold, lay with a book drooped over his face.

He had fallen asleep that way, his chest rising and falling steadily, his breathing slow and deep.