Elias, the patriarch, sat at the head, his silence a heavy cloak that smothered the room. Beside him, Claire, the daughter who had stayed, meticulously organized her peas, her life a series of small, controlled boxes meant to offset the chaos of their shared history.

The dinner table at the Miller household was less a place of nourishment and more a tactical map. Each place setting was a bunker, and every passing of the salt was a calculated maneuver.

Then there was Julian, the prodigal son, whose arrival earlier that afternoon had shattered the fragile peace. He sat across from Claire, his mere presence a reminder of everything they had tried to bury. He carried the scent of the city—fast-paced and unforgiving—a stark contrast to the stagnant air of the family home.

"Or its prisons," he countered, a smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained wary.

The evening devolved into a series of pointed jabs and defensive parries. Claire accused Julian of abandoning them when things got hard; Julian accused Claire of being a martyr for a cause that didn't love her back. Elias, meanwhile, remained a spectator to his own children's grief, unable—or unwilling—to bridge the gap he had helped create.

Elias cleared his throat, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a sidewalk. "You’re here for the reading of the will, I assume. Your mother’s final wishes."