Mark stepped inside, brushing the dust off his sleeves as the fading gold of dusk followed him through the cracks.
The door clicked softly behind him.
The house was unusually still. No voices. Just the faint shuffle of a newspaper and the clink of porcelain.
In the main room, Mr. Dand sat with his usual cup of tea in one hand and the newspaper resting flat across his lap.
The old man's reading glasses were perched low on his nose, his eyes tracking the lines slowly, like he wasn't really reading—just passing time.
The scent of the tea—mint and something faintly floral—lingered in the air.
Mark hesitated in the doorway.
Mr. Dand didn't look up. "You're back."
Mark nodded. "Yeah."
"They're not home yet," the old man said, flipping the page with a soft snap. "Still at the shed, finishing up."
Mark gave a short hum of acknowledgment, rubbing the back of his neck.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—just… distant. Like two clocks ticking in separate rooms.
