LYSANDER
Breakfast the next morning carried the same weight it always did. The table was set. The chairs were occupied. The silence pressed down like something physical.
I sat in my usual seat and waited.
My sisters were already there. All of them looked tense, their hands folded in their laps and their eyes fixed on empty plates. Sofiane slouched across from me with that lazy posture he wore like a shield, but his gaze kept flicking toward the door.
Hazel sat to my left. She hadn't said a word since arriving. Her hands rested on the table, fingers laced together so tight that they started to turn her knuckles pale.
The clock on the wall ticked past the appointed time.
One minute. Then two.
But father did not appear.
Sofiane was the first to break. He leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle.
"Well," he said. "This is new."
One of my sisters shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe he's running late."
"Father doesn't run late," I said.
"Maybe he's sick," she tried again.
