He looked up at me, and for a heartbeat there was something in his bright brown eyes that made my breath catch—an alertness, a sharp awareness that seemed to slice right through the quiet, vacant mask he usually wore.
Then he tugged me toward the house, eager to get to his toys, and I told myself I was imagining things. Wishful thinking. Nothing more.
Inside, the house felt different without Dean and Nyla. Quieter, yes—but also lighter. The tension that usually hung in the air when they were around hovered like invisible smoke. With them gone, that smoke seemed to clear, leaving only the comfortable silence of two people who simply enjoyed being together, even if only one of us was supposed to have a voice.
We spent the morning in the living room. I settled into my favorite armchair with the newspaper and a crossword puzzle. Damian knelt at the coffee table, arranging his action figures in elaborate patterns only he understood.
Every now and then I’d glance over at him—at his careful hands, his serious little face, the way his eyes seemed so alive even when his body stayed still and quiet. The ache of wondering what went on inside his head was something I’d learned to live with.
Around eleven o’clock, I pushed myself up from the chair with a small groan and headed for the kitchen.
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