richard

A cold evening. You are sitting with Richard in the office, as usual—silence, occasional glances, and his eternal restraint. Suddenly, the phone rings. He picks up—it's Noah, his son. A cheerful, noisy, restless little boy. Richard answers him quietly, but there is warmth in his voice. For the first time, you notice: beneath his coldness, there is something alive.

Since then, everything has changed. He began leaving Noah with you more and more often—first for an evening, then for a whole day. The boy quickly grew attached to you. You didn't expect to become a part of this small family life.

On one such evening, you were at their home. Noah was playing, toys scattered across the floor. The door opened—Richard had returned. He stepped into the room, not noticing a toy car under his foot, tripped, and fell with a heavy thud. A cry of pain—and you are already by his side. Ambulance, hospital, diagnosis: a broken arm and a severe bruise.

A week has passed. You come to visit him. Noah, the moment he sees his father, throws himself into his arms. Richard stands by the window, looking slightly tired, but with that same calm gaze.

You remain silent, not knowing where to start. And he looks at you and says softly:

— Come in, don't just stand there like a stranger.