The morning after the rain, Kael and Clara's house was shrouded in a silence thicker than the fog outside the window. Kael was already seated at the dining table, staring at his steaming coffee. Clara busied herself in the kitchen, preparing Bimo's breakfast with mechanical movements—no smile, no banter.
Even the usually cheerful Bimo was quiet, his round eyes blinking as he watched his parents who had turned into statues. "Mama, why isn't Papa talking?" he whispered to Clara.
Clara forced a thin smile. "Papa is tired, Sweetheart. Come on, eat your porridge."
Kael felt he needed to speak. "Clara..."
"Bimo, finish your milk," Clara interjected, deliberately cutting him off. Her voice was flat, but there was a tremor of restrained emotion beneath it.
They continued their breakfast in torturous silence. Only the clinking of spoons and the sound of chewing could be heard. Every time Kael tried to look at Clara, she would look away.
Suddenly, Kael's hand accidentally knocked over a glass of juice. The orange liquid spilled across the tablecloth.
"Sorry," Kael said hastily, trying to clean it up.
Clara stood up. "Leave it." She grabbed a cloth and started wiping roughly, unlike her usual careful self.
"Clara, can we talk?" Kael asked again, his voice soft.
Clara paused for a moment, still with her back to Kael. "What is there to talk about, Kael?" she asked, still in that flat tone. "The weather? Your work? Or..." She stopped, as if restraining herself from continuing.
Kael bowed his head. He knew what Clara meant.
Bimo, feeling the tension escalating, began to fuss. "Mama, I don't want to eat anymore."
Clara finally turned, her face looking utterly exhausted. "Alright, Sweetheart. Let's go to your room, Mama will read you a story."
She picked up Bimo and left the room without once looking at Kael.
Kael sat alone at the dining table, surrounded by the remnants of breakfast and his growing guilt. He looked at their family photo on the wall—Clara smiling happily with Bimo in her arms, while he stood beside them with a smile that now felt fake.
He took a deep breath. This was more painful than an argument. Clara's silence, the way she avoided eye contact, the way she spoke without emotion—it was all sharper than angry shouts.
In Bimo's room, Clara hugged her son tightly while her tears fell silently. She wanted to scream, to get angry, to demand answers. But what for? Would the truth make things better? Or would it destroy what was left of the family they had built?
She chose silence, but her silence was starting to feel like a time bomb.