The soft afternoon light spilt through the grand living room's tall windows, casting warm, golden hues over the elegant furnishings. I stepped inside, a well-loved novel tucked under my arm, intent on enjoying a peaceful afternoon.
I paused when I spotted Edward standing near the expansive windows, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed outside. There was something thoughtful in his posture, a rare stillness that spoke of contemplation rather than simple observation.
Curious, I approached quietly, following his line of sight. In the distance, at the far end of the manicured grounds, Mark moved with focused intensity on the tennis court, his powerful strokes sending the ball slamming into the rebound net with practised precision. Each hit was sharp, precise—almost angry.
Edward's eyes stayed fixed on his son, his expression unreadable, though a glimmer of something—concern, perhaps—lurked in the depths.
