I made his breakfast like I always did—coffee hot and strong, omelet with the right amount of cheese, toast cut into triangles like he preferred. The kitchen was quiet, touched by soft morning light that slanted through the blinds, stretching across the table where his chipped navy mug waited like a habit too old to break. He walked in, didn’t greet me. Just sat down, phone in hand, fork in the other. No eye contact. No warmth. Just silence and the dull clink of metal on ceramic.
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