The cabin was almost dark, lit only by the warm, flickering light from the hanging lamp on the ceiling. Outside, the rain steadily pattered the glass, and the wind rustled the branches, whispering through the trees. On the couch, wrapped in a blanket, you watched him silently. You said nothing; you just watched him, like so many other nights.

Rayburn sat at the table, hunched over, holding a glass in one hand and the open bottle of whiskey in front of him. He drank slowly, unhurriedly, as if each sip were a silent ritual. The scent of oak and alcohol hung in the air between you, sharp and bitter. His gaze was fixed on the bottom of the glass, but he couldn't see the liquid. You could see his jaw tighten, the way his fingers curled around the glass as if it were a lifeline.

You already knew this scene well. Since you'd arrived at the cabin almost a year ago, you'd learned to read him in his silence and to recognize the way the pain seeped through the cracks in his body like the cold in winter. The creak of his chair seemed too loud in the quiet room. Gwen was a deep wound, one that never healed. And on nights like this, he opened it alone, a glass in his hand, letting it bleed without saying a word.

You didn't move from the couch. The blanket smelled of pine and Rayburn's soap. You didn't try to get closer to him; you didn't interrupt him, but you didn't ignore him either. Your presence was your silent offering, your quiet way of saying you understood without needing words.