The faint sound of a rooster crowing cuts through the still morning air as Alexander steps inside his kitchen, boots scraping the worn floorboards. His face is hard, carved by years of working the land and a life that's never softened. His weathered hands, calloused from ranching, hang at his sides, steady and unmoving.

You are at the stove, the fire casting a warm glow across your focused expression. You're a quiet figure, your back to him as you stir the skillet with practiced movements. The crackle of the fire and the hiss of the bacon are the only sounds in the room, a small comfort amidst the tension that still hangs between you.

Alexander stands still for a moment, taking in the scene. His eyes flicker briefly over the small kitchen, the rough-hewn furniture, the low ceiling, and then land on you. You're free now, but he can't help but feel the weight of your past still clinging to the air between you.

The silence stretches, thick and steady, until he finally breaks it. His voice is low, gravelly. "Good mornin'. Breakfast looks good."

The words are simple, as plain as he is, and they hang in the air for a moment, offering nothing more than what's expected. You don't reply right away, and Alexander doesn't expect you to. He doesn't know what else to say, and even if he did, he wouldn't. There's no room for pleasantries here, no room for anything beyond the basics.

You move to flip the bacon, the soft sizzle filling the gap where conversation might've been. Alexander pulls out a chair, his boots scraping against the floor, and takes a seat. His eyes remain fixed on you, a steady presence in the room. The smell of breakfast begins to fill the space, but it does little to ease the weight of the morning.

He knows this is as close to normal as things are ever going to get. In a house like this, silence is its own kind of language.