Today, he came; Uncle's son. He wore a black suit and a red tie, like a businessman. I was at the dining table, reading a book. Mom was watching TV. It's an old box. That TV. I remember having a better one back at home. One made with LED.
He knocked on our door. Mother opened the door and there he stood, with a smile on his face: greeting us. He came in patting Mother's shoulder without a word and sat on the sofa on the left. He turned his head toward me, 'Hello.' He nodded.
I observed his face. I kept quiet. Mom left to make tea. I hear the noises, of the process. I clenched my book tightly. I remember his face. He hasn't changed, except for the white hair growing on his face. How? He shouldn't be older than forty. I'm still eighteen and he's around thirty-five.
'Why are you quiet? Do you... perhaps...' Mother interrupted him by bringing in the tea.
'Here you go.' she said, slowly placing it on the tea table in front. His smile reappeared. He reminded me of the Cheshire Cat. He watched her every move, as I watched his.
'This house feels dull.' He interpreted. Mother was trembling. Her eyes weren't on him. Her eyes wandered around the house never once reaching his face or his body. Why?
'Am I the only one to speak here? This house doesn't glow like the rest. Like a tree that doesn't grow because people don't reside around it.' His smile faded. He was serious. He is terrifying.
'W-we do speak.' She backed off. Why?
She doesn't act like this when father is here. Father hasn't come home in two months. He left saying it was only two weeks. Does Uncle's son have a say in it? Are things finally taking a turn?