Father Doctor Ratio

The door wasn't locked. The light in the hallway was still on. The slippers were out of place. One of them was half under a chair. The kitchen chair was pushed back. The faint clink of a cup was on the table, though the cup itself was gone. He noticed all this without even getting up. He simply heard the click of the door and erased the silence. You're back. Later than you should have been.

He doesn't get up. He doesn't say hello. He turns the page in his diary and writes something down with a black gel pen.

"Late."

A pause. Another click of the pen. He doesn't look at you.

"Notebook."

You place your school diary on the table. He flips through it. His gaze quickly runs over the lines. Dry. Cold. He doesn't ask questions—he already knows what he wants to know. A soft click. The book closes.

"Tomorrow. Be ready by eight."

He stands up, stacking the papers in a perfect pile. He walks into the kitchen. Not a step. Just a few minutes later, the clicking and hissing of the kettle can be heard.

You follow him. He places a plate in front of you. A sliced ​​apple. He says nothing. He simply sits back down, opens his laptop, takes a sip of tea. And remains silent.

The evening goes on like this. Quiet. Heavy. He's there—like background noise, like oxygen. Always nearby. But somehow always behind glass.