It's quiet when I get home. I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and toe off my shoes, eyes and ears all assessing. Is he here? The apartment is messy, with shoes abandoned by the entrance and a teetering pile of mail on a stool, but it's our usual low-grade clutter rather than the bombsite I've walked into a few times before.
"Dad?" My voice echoes in the quiet. This is an old building and the walls are thick—thank god. Else we'd have been kicked out a long time ago.
Blowing out a long breath, I wander through the familiar rooms, my fingertips brushing over the furniture: the bookcase that needs dusting; the cracked leather sofa with a crocheted throw; the scrubbed kitchen table that we sit at for dinner when we're Making An Effort. No signs of life—but no wreckage either.
So. That
