A Failed Probe and the Unexpected Trip
One evening, I feigned casualness while she ladled soup. "Sis, that dress looks lovely—is it new?" Her hand didn’t waver as she set the bowl before me. "Oh, this old thing? I just wear it around the house," she replied with a smile. The lie was obvious; I’d seen her wear it out. My brother chimed in, "Yeah, comfort matters." But the peace shattered later when he announced at dinner, "Work’s sent me on a last-minute trip. Flying to Cleveland tomorrow for about three days."
Her Silence and the Departure Morning
Her chopsticks froze mid-air. "Tomorrow? So sudden?" Her voice trembled. "Mm, project deadlines," he explained, continuing his meal. She asked no more, head bowed as she picked at her rice, her knuckles whitening around her chopsticks. The next dawn, sky still dim, he wheeled his suitcase out. She followed to the garage, the wind pressing her thin nightgown against her frame. He embraced her. "Go back inside. I’ll call when I land—three days, that’s all."
Abnormal Normalcy and the Long Day
As the garage door lowered, she lingered, watching. Turning back, her face paler than usual, she didn’t cry or speak. She made breakfast as always, but slowly, silently. That day, I stayed in my room, ostensibly reading or gaming, but my ears strained for any sound. Strangely, I heard no hint of her usual preparations—no makeup, no departure.
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