Isaac stepped into the house and was met by silence.
The apartment smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and old pine wood—too clean, too undisturbed. Shoes were neatly lined up by the door, the lights were all off, and nothing had moved in days. His coat slung from his hand, landing on the hook without thought, as he stepped deeper inside.
The quiet was suffocating.
He stood still in the hallway, letting the emptiness press in from all sides. It used to be a place filled with sound. Lucas's keys jingling at the door. The low hum of music in the kitchen. Laughter—soft, warm, and real. Now, all of it had been stripped away, and the walls echoed like a tomb.
Isaac didn't even bother checking the fridge. He wasn't hungry.
