Conversations didn’t stop. Cups still touched saucers. Laughter lingered.
And yet—something shifted.
Like a breath held too long.
Like the air itself was waiting.
The boy stepped inside.
Eight years old, maybe.
Too small for the weight he carried.
Too steady for a child who should have still believed the world was gentle.
On his back, a little girl clung to him—no older than three—her cheek resting against his shoulder, trusting him in the way only children trust the one person they believe will never let them fall.
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