Evening settled like a hush.
The door creaked softly as they stepped inside.
Artur reached for the light switch, filling the room with a warm glow. Billy kicked his boots off near the door and rubbed the back of his neck.
"He left early today," Billy said, glancing toward the empty chair by the kitchen. "Didn't even touch breakfast."
Artur shrugged off his jacket, hung it up. "Probably one of his meetings."
"He didn't say anything."
"He never does."
Billy moved toward the stove, peeking inside the covered pot. Still warm. He stirred it absentmindedly. "Feels weird. Him not being here."
Artur leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "He'll come back. He always does."
Minutes passed.
Billy set the table. Two plates. Then, on second thought, three. The stew simmered low, and the room quieted—just the tick of the wall clock and the low boil.
The door finally creaked open.
