For the next few days, Nicholas Knight acted like I didn't exist. Or worse—like I was some malfunctioning kitchen appliance he was forced to tolerate until the replacement arrived.
His manner of speaking—a monotonous voice—suggested I was merely an object, a fleeting nuisance whose presence he was timing until he could eliminate me without breaching his company rules
He spoke in short, clipped words. He avoided looking at me unless absolutely necessary. And every time I tried to walk past him, he suddenly found a new rule to remind me of.
"Don't leave the pantry door half open."
"Your shoes are squeaking too much on the floors."
"That spoon is not aligned properly."
I swear he was inventing faults at this point. But I didn't say anything because… well… I had touched a nerve.
I wasn't fully aware of the entire story—only that bringing up his parents struck a nerve deep inside him.
