Julian paused, his hand on the door handle. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Some things don't need to change, Julian," Claire replied, not looking up. "Consistency has its merits."

"The house looks the same," Julian remarked, his voice cutting through the clinking of silverware.

Elias, the patriarch, sat at the head, his silence a heavy cloak that smothered the room. Beside him, Claire, the daughter who had stayed, meticulously organized her peas, her life a series of small, controlled boxes meant to offset the chaos of their shared history.

Then there was Julian, the prodigal son, whose arrival earlier that afternoon had shattered the fragile peace. He sat across from Claire, his mere presence a reminder of everything they had tried to bury. He carried the scent of the city—fast-paced and unforgiving—a stark contrast to the stagnant air of the family home.

The dinner table at the Miller household was less a place of nourishment and more a tactical map. Each place setting was a bunker, and every passing of the salt was a calculated maneuver.

The evening devolved into a series of pointed jabs and defensive parries. Claire accused Julian of abandoning them when things got hard; Julian accused Claire of being a martyr for a cause that didn't love her back. Elias, meanwhile, remained a spectator to his own children's grief, unable—or unwilling—to bridge the gap he had helped create.