Caleb comes back later.
Not immediately. Not dramatically. There’s no warning ripple through the house, no shift in the air that announces him before he appears. No instinctive pull or spike of awareness. I only know because the door opens, quiet this time, and closes again with deliberate care, the latch guided instead of dropped.
The sound lands differently than before.
It doesn’t cut. It settles.
He looks exhausted.
Not just tired. Worn down in a way that settles into the shoulders and the eyes, like anger burned hot and long enough to leave ash behind. The kind of exhaustion that isn’t fixed by sleep because it isn’t physical alone. His jacket is still on, collar half turned up like he forgot about it hours ago. His hair is out of place, like he’s run his hands through it too many
