Where It’s Quieter
When Alex opened the door, his father stood on the doorstep.
“Hello,” he said, eyes dipping downward. His voice sounded distant—hollow, strained, as if he’d practised the word the whole way over but still missed the right tone.
Nine years had passed. Alex didn’t recognise him at first. There was something familiar in his features—the jawline, the curve of his brows, the way his shoulders turned. But his voice was unfamiliar—low, rough at the edges. His hands were calloused, nails bitten down. His jacket was worn, like it had seen more than one winter. Dark circles under his eyes, the kind you get from years of sleepless nights. He carried a strange scent—tobacco, road dust, and something rootless.
“Can I come in?” his father asked, shoulders tightening slightly, as if already bracing for refusal.
Alex stepped aside without a word. He had nothing to say, no prepared reaction, no script. He just watched—like a man who walked into the cinema only to find the wrong film playing, yet stays anyway because the story, in the end, is still about him.
His father had left when Alex was eleven. Just packed a bag and said, “I’ll explain later.” The explanation never came—not in a week, not in a year, not in a letter, not in a call. His disappearance wasn’t a storm—more like a sneaky draft. The door slammed, and the air changed. His mother barely spoke of him. Only once, when Alex broke a mug, she sighed, “Gone like a lad,” and that was it. They never brought it up again.
Then came Simon—with his moustache, cologne, and habit of jingling his keys. Then someone else, whose name Alex didn’t bother to remember. Then—cancer. Six months, a hospice, a silence so thick even the radio in the hall couldn’t pierce it. A funeral. Short speeches. A coffin. Dirt. And Alex—alone. Seventeen years old. All that remained—two photographs, her scarf, and an empty flat where no one called his name anymore.
He worked as a courier, rented a room, enrolled in a correspondence course. Delivered food, building supplies, documents—anything. Rain or snow, no days off. By twenty, he was on his feet—shakily, but his own. Owed no one. Expected nothing. The pay was meagre, but it covered rent and food. He asked for nothing more.
He lived quietly. No tragedies. No triumphs. Days passed like water from a tap—monotonous. Wake up, get ready, go. Come back, eat, sleep. He didn’t complain. Didn’t hope, either. Lived on inertia, sparingly—with words, with feelings, even with air. Sometimes he went to the cinema, just to remind himself other lives existed. But he’d walk out and become invisible again.
His father moved silently into the kitchen, shrugged off his jacket. Hung it carefully, like a guest. Sat down. Moved cautiously, as if afraid of dropping something—not on the table, but in the space between them.
“I don’t drink,” he said. His voice wavered slightly, then he pressed his lips thin, as if regretting speaking too soon.
Alex nodded. Said nothing. Sat across from him, hands resting on his knees.
“Where were you?”
His father exhaled. Long. Like a man who’d spent nine years preparing for the question and still hadn’t found the right answer. He stared at the floor, then the window, as if searching for clues.
“Up north. Construction work. Then prison. Then a village. Then more construction. Then I decided I wanted to see you. Took me a while to make up my mind.”
He didn’t meet Alex’s eyes. Just looked at his hands. There was a fresh scar on his palm—ragged, like from glass. Alex stared at it, unsure how to react. Like a stranger had walked in with a story that forgot to mention him, now trying to slot him into the final chapters as if nothing had been missed.
They drank tea. Plain, from a bag. No biscuits. No sugar. Words were scarce, to be spent only when necessary. Spoons didn’t clink. Steam curled, then vanished. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual.
“Got anyone in your life?” his father asked, dryly, not looking up.
“No.”
“Live alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Same.”
After that, silence. And in that pause, it became clear—they were alike. Not in looks, not in voice. In the quiet. In how they couldn’t say the important things. How they kept it all inside, as if words would only ruin it. And though the tea went cold, the evening still felt closer than most in years.
An hour later, his father stood. Slowly, like his body resisted leaving the one place where, for once, someone had listened.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said, voice almost steady, but the last word wobbled, something fragile in it. “Just wanted you to know. I’m alive. And—yeah, it’s my fault. Don’t know how to do it right. Maybe never did.”
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it with a thumb, and held it out.
“Address. If… if you ever want. Not expecting it. Just… in case.”
He left. No embrace. No grand words. No promises. Just the click of the door.
Alex sat a moment longer. Then rose, washed both mugs, took the paper, and stuck it under a fridge magnet.
A month later, he showed up. No call, no warning. Stood by an old wooden house on the outskirts. His father sat on the porch, in slippers, a book in hand. Saw him—didn’t seem surprised.
“Cuppa?” he asked.
Alex nodded.
And that was the start. No shouting. No forgiveness. No fresh start. Just—quieter. Where you could breathe. Where someone was there again.
