Ethan studied her, the lines on his face deepening with concern and a hint of recognition. “No, I don’t,” he admitted, his voice gravelly with years of disuse. “But I’ve seen what men can do, and no one deserves this.” His eyes flickered to the window, scanning the horizon as if expecting shadows from her past to materialize.
The girl, barely more than a whisper of life, clung to the warmth of the stew. Each spoonful was a small rebellion against the darkness she carried within her. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the sparse furnishings, the faded photographs lining the mantel, memories of a life that seemed long forgotten.
Ethan found himself drawn into her silence, the palpable weight of her suffering filling the space between them. He wanted to ask questions, to understand her story, but he held back, knowing that some wounds were too raw to bear the burden of words.
