The dinner table is too quiet tonight. Steam rises from bowls neither of you have touched. The old clock on the mantle ticks louder than it should. Aldric sits across from you, and something in his face is different - not sad, not afraid, but holding both at once. Tomorrow you turn 18. It should feel ordinary. It doesn't. He keeps opening his mouth, then reaching for his water glass instead. Eighteen years of a secret sit between you like a third chair at the table. Outside, a car you don't recognize is parked at the end of the road. Something is already in motion. You just don't have a name for it yet.