Chapter 2 — Echoes of Silence

Eamon

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint murmur of city life sneaking through the cracked window. Eamon shut the door behind him with a soft click, his fingers lingering briefly on the knob. The air inside was still, carrying the faint, stale scent of morning coffee and wood polish. His gaze fell to Clara’s sneakers—one lying on its side, the other halfway beneath the coat rack. He bent to straighten them, shaking his head lightly, a small tug of exasperation and fondness pulling at his chest. The sight reminded him of when she was younger, leaving her sneakers in a haphazard pile by the door after running into the kitchen, eagerly showing him her latest school project. Back then, it had been easier to connect.

From behind Clara’s closed bedroom door, muted music spilled out—sharp, fast, and just loud enough to discourage interruption. Eamon paused in the hallway, his hand brushing the strap of his messenger bag. The memory of the park slipped back into focus: Maris’s warm, sheepish laugh, the vivid cinnamon scent of her cookies, and the moment he had chosen to help instead of staying in his quiet bubble. Her easy demeanor had been a contrast to his own guardedness. He wasn’t sure why it stayed with him, but it had.

With a quiet sigh, he moved into the kitchen. Clara’s books were stacked unevenly on the small dining table, her earbuds tangled in a nest beside them. Her jacket was slung over the back of a chair, a sleeve draping like a forgotten thread of her presence. His boots scuffed softly against the worn linoleum as he opened the fridge, scanning its sparse contents. Leftovers and condiments blinked back at him, an uninspiring collection that mirrored the hollow weight pressing at the edges of his mind. Resolving to make do, he grabbed a carton of eggs and the half-loaf of bread. Dinner would be simple tonight.

The hiss of the frying pan filled the kitchen as he cracked an egg one-handed, the yolk spreading unevenly on the dark surface. He worked methodically, his motions deliberate, almost meditative. Yet his thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the cluttered page in his sketchbook—the half-formed lines of Maris’s face, the faint smile that had taken shape before he’d stopped.

A sharp pop from the pan startled him, breaking the spell. He plated the eggs and toast quickly, setting the table for two. Standing in the doorway to Clara’s room, he knocked lightly, the sound barely carrying over the thrum of bass from her music.

“Dinner’s ready,” he called, his voice calm but firm enough to be heard.

The music cut off abruptly, followed by a muffled, “Coming.” A moment later, Clara emerged, her auburn hair falling in uneven strands around her face, the streaks of blue catching the dim glow of the kitchen light. She wore her usual oversized hoodie and ripped jeans, her earbuds dangling around her neck like a badge of defiance.

Sliding into the chair across from him, she let her movements carry a languid resistance, her sharp, observant gaze flicking briefly to his face before settling on her plate. She picked up her fork without comment, her posture sinking into the chair as if to emphasize her reluctance.

“Eggs again, huh?” she said finally, her voice laced with just enough dry humor to mask any real complaint.

“They’re quick,” Eamon replied, his tone even as he speared his own piece of toast.

Clara’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though her eyes stayed shadowed. “You know, they sell other food at the store, right? Maybe vegetables? Or, I don’t know, pasta?”

Eamon glanced at her, unsure whether she was teasing or genuinely annoyed. Likely both. “Noted,” he said quietly, though he made a mental note to pick up something different tomorrow. Her smirk lingered, but the lightness didn’t quite reach her shoulders, which stayed hunched beneath the hoodie.

For a while, they ate in silence, the clink of forks against plates filling the space between them. Clara’s gaze drifted intermittently to the window, where the faint glow of a streetlamp painted shifting shadows across the walls. She fidgeted with the strings of her hoodie, twisting them in tight loops around her fingers.

“So,” she said finally, her tone deliberately casual, “how was the park? Sketch anything interesting?”

The question caught him mid-bite, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. Clara rarely asked about his day, let alone his art. He set the fork down carefully, glancing at her. “It was fine,” he said after a pause. “Quiet.”

“Quiet,” she echoed, one eyebrow lifting. “That’s it?”

Eamon hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of his plate. “What about your day? Anything new at school?”

Clara’s shoulders tensed subtly before she shrugged, her posture sinking deeper into the folds of her hoodie. “Same old. Teachers droning on, people being idiots. Nothing groundbreaking.”

He nodded, unsure how to bridge the gap. Clara had always been quick to read between the lines, and now her gaze stayed trained on him, probing for something unsaid. She toyed with her fork, spinning it absently as she spoke again.

“Did you talk to anyone new today?” she asked, her tone light, but her eyes sharp.

The question hung between them, her curiosity pressing against him. Eamon thought of Maris, of her easy laugh and the broken cookie she’d handed him. How could he explain that moment without it sounding like... something else?

“Ran into someone testing recipes,” he said finally, keeping his voice measured. “She dropped her basket near the fountain. Helped her pick it up.”

Clara froze, her fork suspended mid-air, before her lips curled into a slow, incredulous smile. “Wait. You helped someone?”

Eamon frowned slightly, his tone defensive. “I help people.”

“Not random strangers,” she countered, her amusement sharpening her words.

“It wasn’t a big deal, Clara.”

She studied him for a moment longer, her smirk softening into something almost like curiosity. “Okay, Dad. If you say so.”

Her words carried a teasing edge, but Eamon caught the faint shadow behind her eyes, the way her fingers flexed nervously against her plate. He set his fork down, leaning forward slightly.

“Is something bothering you?” he asked, his voice soft but direct.

Clara stiffened, her gaze dropping to her plate. “What? No. Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” he said carefully, trying to keep his tone neutral.

She shrugged again, her fork scraping lightly against the edge of her plate. “I’m fine. Don’t overthink it.”

Eamon wanted to press further, to say something that might draw her out. A memory surfaced—Clara at ten, holding up a poorly made papier-mâché volcano with shy pride. He’d been too preoccupied with work to notice, brushing her off with a distracted “Later, kiddo.” Her disappointment had been sharp, though she’d masked it quickly. That gap between them had only widened since then.

But as always, the words caught in his throat, his fear of pushing her away outweighing his need to reach her. He let the silence stretch, hoping she might fill it. Instead, Clara pushed her chair back with a faint scrape against the floor.

“Thanks for dinner,” she said, her voice flat as she carried her plate to the sink.

“Clara—” he started, but she was already retreating, her earbuds slipping back into place as she disappeared into her room. A plain black notebook with frayed edges sat on her desk, catching his eye briefly through the open door before the click of it closing shut.

Eamon sat alone at the table, the echoes of their brief conversation swirling around him. He thought of the way her eyes had lingered on him, as if searching for something he didn’t know how to give.

Rising slowly, he cleared the table and washed the dishes, his movements automatic. When the kitchen was clean, he sank into the armchair in the living room, pulling his sketchbook from his bag. The leather was warm against his fingers, its texture grounding him as he traced the edges absently.

Flipping it open, he found the page he’d started in the park—a rough sketch of Maris and her scattered baked goods. Her face was still only half-formed, the lines hesitant, as if he’d been afraid to commit fully to the moment.

But it wasn’t the sketch that held his attention now. Carefully, he slid out the unfinished drawing tucked into the back pocket, his breath catching as the folded paper creased open. Clara’s younger face stared back at him, her wide, unguarded smile frozen in graphite. Beside her, his ex-wife’s features remained only lightly sketched, her presence barely there. And next to her was himself, rendered in faint, hesitant lines that betrayed his uncertainty.

He remembered the night he’d started it, Clara leaning against him, her small hand resting on his arm as she’d watched him draw. “Are you gonna finish it, Dad?” she’d asked, and he’d promised he would.

But he never had.

With a quiet sigh, he folded the drawing and slid it back into the pocket. For a long moment, he stared at the blank page in his sketchbook, his pencil hovering above it. Then, slowly, he began to draw—not the past, but something new.

The lines came slowly at first, deliberate. He sketched the curve of a cookie, the spill of a basket, and the faint trace of a smile. And as the image took shape, he felt, for the first time in a long while, a flicker of something that felt like hope.