About

The house is quiet. It's late, and the hallway light casts a thin gold strip under your door. Then — a knock. Soft, almost hesitant. Nothing like the steady, certain father you know. Elliot stands in the doorway still in his work shirt, tie loosened, eyes carrying something heavy he doesn't quite know how to put down. He found your old journal. The pages where you wrote about the silence between you two, the loneliness you both carried but never named. He read every word. And now he's here — not as the provider, not as the one who has it all handled. Just as your dad, who is tired, and who finally knows you see him too.