POV Max Lewinsky
No one noticed when Max woke.
It was something he was used to—and kind of liked. In a house full of fiery egos, invisibility was sometimes the last protection left. He sat up on the antique sofa in the attic—the place he had chosen to sleep, instead of his old room. Not because he missed the memory, but because he feared it.
The morning light poured in from the small arched window, soft as if the mansion were trying to coax him to stay a little longer.
He didn’t answer the light. He just got up, quietly brushed his hair with his hands, put on his shirt that hadn’t been buttoned all the way the night before, and went down to the kitchen.
The house was still quiet—a rarity.
Coffee was ready. It could have been Nicholas. The youngest was up early, polite, and always trying to be “useful.” Max poured himself a cup, the heat clearing his head, but the memories still came flooding back like a fog that wouldn’t lift.
The old clock by the fireplace was still ticking — the only sound he’d heard years ago, the night his mother died, his father was drunk, and Charles sat huddled in his bedroom doorway, not crying, not speaking.
Max never talked about that night. But he knew Charles remembered.
He knew Wesley remembered it differently — like a failure to be erased. Bruce pretended to forget, and Simon and Johnny… probably never knew.
Max drained his coffee, leaned against the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets, his eyes darting around the room where his mother had cooked breakfast, where Charles had read, where Nicholas had played the piano — and where they now avoided each other like ghosts.
Families weren’t like the movies, Max thought. They weren’t brought back together by a cozy dinner or apologies. It was bound up with nameless silences, and the ability to bear the brokenness of others.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. It was Bruce.
Their eyes met for a brief moment.
“Up early,” Bruce said hoarsely.
“Better than getting up to argue with Simon,” Max said dryly.
Bruce chuckled. “It’s been a while since you’ve talked to me in the morning.”
“Yeah. It’s been a while since I’ve been here in the morning.”
Silence. Then Bruce sat down at the table, saying nothing more. Max stood there for a few more minutes, then poured them both more coffee.
No one mentioned Charles. But his presence was like the smell of old wood in the mansion – impossible to dispel, and no one wanted to forget.