Ava

That morning, I was seated at the dining table, eating my mother's homemade delicacies. The aroma of freshly baked bread and spiced stew filled the room, a comforting presence amidst the chaos of my thoughts. I was eating for two now, and my mother ensured I never missed a meal.

The front door creaked open, and Marcel stepped in. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped, his usual confident stride replaced with a weary shuffle.

"Where are you coming from?" I asked, concern lacing my voice.

He didn't respond immediately, instead sinking into the chair opposite me with a heavy sigh.

"Where's Mom?" he inquired, avoiding my...