He filled the kettle, his movements efficient but his mind still in the hallway, listening. The click of the stove burner was followed by a profound silence from behind the bathroom door.Inside, Paschal leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the cool porcelain. He looked at his reflection - the gaunt cheeks, the eyes that seemed too large for their sockets - but that day, he did not see a ghost. He saw a survivor. The simple act of turning on the tap himself, of testing the water temperature with his own wrist, was an intimate reclaiming of territory lost to frailty and dependence.He washed slowly, each movement a calculated effort. The soap slipped from his fingers once, clattering into the tub. Sean, in the pantry, froze at the sound, the chamomile leaves spilling from his hand onto the counter. He held his breath, waiting for a call, a fall, a sign of struggle but none came.Only the steady, reassuring sound of water resumed.A minute later, Paschal’s voice, clear and firm,
Magbasa pa
Mag-log in
