The spoon clinked against the bowl. Ting.
The sound traveled through the kitchen. It hit the walls. It hit the window. It hit Lena.
It didn't resonate. It died against her skin.
She sat at the head of the table. Her hands were folded on the wood. Grey. Smooth. Unmoving. She didn't need to hold them still. They were heavy. Dense. They rested on the table like anchors.
Ryder ate his cereal. Crunch. Swallow. Breath.
He looked at Ezra. "Where's Mom?"
The question hung in the air. Thick. Suffocating.
Ezra stopped chewing. He held the fork halfway to his mouth. He looked at Lena. His eyes were red. Rimmed with wet.
"She's... working," Ezra said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "She's very busy."
Ryder nodded. He accepted it. He didn't know the woman sitting three feet away was
