Monday, May 2, 2022 - A House That No Longer Breathes
Lyon – 6:30 AM
The alarm vibrated on the bedside table, breaking the thick silence of the room. A faint buzzing sound. A monotonous rhythm.
Milo slowly opened his eyes, blinking multiple times to adjust to the dim light filtering through the closed curtains. His body felt heavy, numb from sleep, and his mind was still drifting in that morning fog between dream and reality.
He stretched slightly, but an eerie sensation crept over him. Something was wrong.
Silence.
At this hour, the house was usually alive. The sound of coffee dripping from the machine, the deep voice of his father pulling him from bed with his usual "Up, champ."
But today… nothing.
A shiver ran down his spine. His instincts screamed that something was off.
He abruptly sat up, glancing toward the window. Outside, the sky was a menacing gray. A fine drizzle tapped softly against the glass.
His fingers brushed over the still-warm blanket, but he paid no attention. All that mattered was the growing anxiety tightening his chest.
He placed his feet on the cold floor and slowly opened his bedroom door.
"Dad?"
No response.
His heartbeat quickened.
A Scene Frozen in Time
The hallway was shrouded in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the weak morning light struggling to pierce through the living room curtains.
Milo advanced, his steps light, almost hesitant.
The floor creaked beneath his weight.
He stopped at the threshold of the living room.
And his breath caught.
His father was there. Lying on the couch. Motionless.
For a fleeting second, Milo hoped he was just asleep.
But that illusion shattered the moment he stepped closer.
"Dad?"
Nothing.
His body was curled slightly, his hand hanging limply over the edge of the couch.
A terrible premonition exploded in Milo's chest.
He no longer thought—he ran to him.
"Dad, wake up!"
A trembling hand touched his father's shoulder, shaking it slightly.
His body was cold.
Time stopped.
"Damn it, Dad, ANSWER ME!"
His own voice echoed through the room, shattering the oppressive silence.
But there was no response.
The Shattering Moment
Hurried footsteps.
Milo felt a presence behind him.
His mother.
Isabelle stopped abruptly at the entrance of the living room.
Her eyes widened in horror as she realized.
"Richard…?"
Her voice was nothing more than a breathless whisper.
Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees beside the couch. Her hands trembled as she touched her husband's lifeless face.
"No… no… no…"
Milo stood frozen. His body refused to move, his mind refused to comprehend.
Then, another voice.
Marco.
His older brother appeared, shirtless, still half-asleep.
A moment of silence.
Then reality hit like an uppercut.
"Dad?"
His gaze met Milo's.
And he understood immediately.
The Nightmare Becomes Real
The phone slipped from Isabelle's hands as she tried to call for help.
"He's not moving… He's not…"
Her voice broke into an uncontrollable sob.
Marco stepped forward slowly, as if dreading what he would see.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.
Milo, on the other hand, did not cry.
He couldn't.
Everything was a blur.
A metallic taste filled his mouth, as if his own body refused to accept the truth.
Then, a scream.
His mother collapsed onto Richard's chest, shaking with grief.
Marco trembled, but no tears fell.
Milo burned from the inside out.
Rage, Emptiness, and Helplessness
The rest of the day passed like a mirage.
The paramedics, the murmuring neighbors, the pity-filled faces.
Milo answered no one.
His gaze was hollow.
He wanted to hit something.
But there was nothing beneath his fists.
Flashback - The Last Lesson
A week earlier.
Milo was in the gym, sweat dripping down his forehead. His father stood before him, hands on his hips, observing his form.
"Again," Richard ordered.
Milo threw a jab, followed by a cross. His father's hand blocked him mid-motion.
"Too stiff. Flow with the punch, don't force it. Again."
Milo exhaled sharply and adjusted his stance. He threw another combination, this time smoother.
Richard gave a small nod of approval.
"Better. But remember, son… Boxing isn't just about fists. It's about heart. Strength fades, speed slows, but if you have the will, no one can take that from you."
Milo smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"That's corny, Dad."
Richard smirked. "Maybe. But one day, you'll understand."
That was the last time they trained together.
Now, those words echoed in Milo's head like a ghost.
The First War of a Son
Lyon, Winslow Family Home – Midnight, a night without end
The house was engulfed in silence. But this silence was worse than any noise.
Milo slowly descended the stairs. Each step echoed in the darkness like a dull pulse. His breathing was heavy, his throat tight, his thoughts shackled to one single thing: emptiness.
His feet moved on their own, guiding him toward the door.
Winslow Boxing Gym.
Tonight, he should have been here with his father. Hitting the bag under his watchful gaze, listening to his corrections, feeling his presence.
Marco should have been there too, serving as his sparring partner.
But he was alone.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
The gym was engulfed in an oppressive darkness. The familiar scent of leather, sweat, and chalk hung in the air.
Everything was frozen, as if time itself had ceased to exist.
Milo stopped in the center of the room.
His eyes scanned the space.
His father's gloves still hung on the wall.
The water bottle he always left lying around was still there, untouched.
The mats still bore traces of their last training session.
Nothing had changed.
Except Richard Winslow was never coming back.
But the punching bag was still there.
Hanging in the middle of the gym, solid, indifferent, unshakable.
It, too, did not respond.
No sounds of gloves striking leather.
No words of encouragement filling the space.
Only crushing silence.
Milo stepped forward slowly.
His trembling fingers wrapped the hand wraps around his wrists.
Without thinking.
Without feeling.
Then he struck.
BAM.
Once.
BAM BAM.
Harder. Faster.
His breath broke. His heart pounded against his ribs.
BOOM. A hook.
BOOM. A straight punch.
BOOM. Another one.
He no longer counted. He hit as if his soul was on fire.
As if hitting could bring his father back.
His breathing turned erratic. A scream tore from his throat.
"WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?!"
His fist crashed against the bag again. And again.
His body screamed in exhaustion, but he continued.
Until his hands bled.
Until his arms could no longer hold him.
Until his legs gave out beneath him.
He collapsed to his knees, forehead pressed against the bag.
Silence returned.
But this time, it swallowed him completely.
There was nothing left.
Only emptiness.
But this time, it swallowed him whole.
To be continued...
Will Milo overcome his grief, or let his rage consume him?
How will he handle his father's absence in the days to come?
Leave a comment and follow the story to find out!