Chapter 140: A Lonely Feast
Christmas morning wasn't joyful to everyone…
Henry was sitting at the long dining table, staring at the untouched plate in front of him.
The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall.
A perfectly cooked breakfast was before him—eggs, bacon, toast, even a steaming pot of coffee.
But the smell turned his stomach.
He picked up his fork and poked at the eggs, letting the yolk run across the plate.
"Merry Christmas," he muttered bitterly to himself, his voice echoed in the empty dining hall.
The table stretched on endlessly, its polished wood gleaming in the soft light of the chandelier.
He looked at the empty chairs.
This table used to be full of voices, moves, hands.
Now it was just him.
He sighed heavily, pulling his phone from his pocket.
His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before he opened his contact list.
