The tavern was nearly empty that morning, but Tom was already there, slumped over a table with a half-drained cup of coffee. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking as though he hadn't slept in days.
Robert guided William inside, though the boy hung back, his shoulders stiff, eyes avoiding his father's.
"Tom," Robert said, sliding into the seat across from him.
Tom lifted his head slowly. His face was worn, hollow, but the moment he saw William, a flicker of life sparked in his eyes. "Any news?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Robert shook his head. "Not yet. But we've found pieces. The Hollow has rules. It bargains. And it listens."
Tom's hands clenched into fists. "Rules? Bargains? My son is out there, Robert. He doesn't need riddles—he needs saving."
William shifted uncomfortably, then muttered, "Maybe rules are the only way we can save him."
Both men looked at him. William didn't meet his father's eyes.
Robert cleared his throat, trying to steady the conversation. "We're closer than before. If we can piece the rules together, we can weaken it. Maybe even stop it."
Tom leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Or maybe we're wasting time while it plays with our children like toys." He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cup. "If there's even a chance to face it, I'll take it. Pact, rules—be damned."
William's eyes flicked toward Tom, almost agreeing, though he stayed silent. Robert caught the look and felt a pang deep in his chest.
The Hollow wasn't just haunting them in the dark. It was sowing distrust in the daylight, feeding on every doubt, every crack.
And Robert realized, with a cold certainty, that if he didn't hold them together—Tom, William, and himself—they would all break long before the Hollow claimed its final sacrifice.
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Tom shoved back his chair, the legs scraping across the floor. "I can't sit here any longer, Robert. Every minute we waste, Ethan slips further away. I'm going into those woods."
Robert rose to his feet, blocking him. "You'll walk right into its hands. That's what it wants—desperation, anger. You go in blind, you won't come back."
Tom's jaw tightened, grief twisting into rage. "And what would you have me do? Pray? Wait for scraps of riddles from old men and half-burned books? My boy is out there suffering!"
Robert's voice hardened. "And so are others. You think I don't care? You think I wouldn't trade my life for theirs in a heartbeat? But running headfirst into the Hollow won't save Ethan—it'll just feed it."
The tavern air grew tense, heavy, as the two men glared at each other.
William shifted uncomfortably at the edge of the table, his gaze flicking between them. Finally, he spoke—quiet, almost to himself. "Maybe Tom's right. Maybe waiting only makes it stronger."
Robert turned sharply. "Will—"
But the boy avoided his father's eyes, staring at the floor. The distance between them widened, silent but undeniable.
Tom saw it and pressed harder. "You hear that? Even your son knows it—we can't afford caution. Not anymore."
Robert's fists clenched at his sides, torn between fury and fear. The Hollow was winning without lifting a finger, twisting their grief into division.
"Fine," Robert said at last, voice low but steady. "If we go into those woods, we do it with knowledge. With a plan. Otherwise, we're just handing it what it wants."
Tom's eyes burned with frustration, but he didn't move. The storm between them had no resolution, only a fragile, uneasy pause.
And William, silent by the window, felt the echo of his mother's words tightening around him like chains:
He doesn't understand you like I do.
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The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Tom's hand trembled against the table, then balled into a fist. His voice dropped, raw and breaking.
"You can keep talking about plans, Robert. I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ethan. I hear him calling for me. If I sit here any longer, I'll go mad."
Before Robert could stop him, Tom grabbed his coat and stormed toward the door.
"Tom—wait!" Robert called, but his friend didn't slow.
The door slammed, leaving a gust of cold air in his wake.
Robert stood frozen, torn between chasing after him and protecting William. His mind screamed that this was exactly what the Hollow wanted—isolating them, luring them in one by one.
William's voice broke the silence. "Maybe he'll find Ethan. Maybe he's the only one brave enough to try."
Robert turned sharply, his chest tightening. "William, don't—"
But his son had already looked away, staring into the mist outside the tavern. The boy's jaw was clenched, his eyes hard, and Robert saw in him not just doubt—but distance.
The Hollow didn't need to drag them into the dark. It was tearing them apart in the daylight.
Robert pressed his hand against the table, forcing himself to breathe. "If Tom goes in blind, the Hollow will devour him," he said quietly, mostly to himself. "And if it does… Ethan won't be the only one we lose."
Outside, the mist curled thick and gray, swallowing Tom's figure as he marched toward the edge of the woods.