The room was immaculate, as if untouched by time. The white walls gleamed under the sharp overhead light and the windows were shut tight, trapping the staleness of the air. Eleanor sat in the armchair by the window, fingers tracing the edge of the teacup in her lap. The tea was cold now - untouched, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t thirsty.

Her husband, David, stood by the mantle, his eyes fixed on the clock. It ticked with maddening precision, each second pulling them both deeper into the silence. His hand rested on the wooden frame, tapping in rhythm with the ticking, but otherwise, he stood still.

The house was too quiet. It had been this way for weeks, or maybe months. Time had become slippery in a way Eleanor had never experienced before. Days, nights, and seasons blurred together in a haze. Outside, the trees were losing their leaves, but she couldn’t remember when they’d last changed colors. When she last cared to notice.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eleanor asked softly, her voice barely breaking through the rhythmic ticking of the clock.

David’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t look at her. “What is there to talk about?” His voice was flat, like the air in the room - stale, empty.

“We can’t keep pretending nothing happened,” she said, her gaze dropping to her hands. The porcelain cup in her hands trembled slightly.

“There’s nothing to pretend. Life goes on, Eleanor. Just like it always does.” His tone was controlled, calm even, but there was a sharp edge to it, like something jagged hidden under smooth water.

She looked at him, searching his face for a flicker of emotion, for something human. But his eyes stayed locked on the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“What kind of life is this?” she murmured, more to herself than to him. She didn’t expect an answer. She never did anymore.

David shifted slightly, his back stiffening at the question. “A normal life. The kind people live when they move on.”

She almost laughed. Normal. It was a word that had lost all meaning to her. She used to know what it felt like, to wake up in the morning and feel like life was something more than a series of motions. Back when the house was alive with noise, with laughter, with the sounds of little footsteps racing down the hallway. But that was before.

“I don’t understand how you do it,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “How you just… keep going. Like nothing’s changed.”

David’s fingers drummed against the mantle, faster now, less in sync with the clock’s ticking. “Because nothing has changed,” he said, though his voice wavered just a bit. “We get up, we go to work, we come home. We go on.”

“You don’t believe that,” she said, her voice growing stronger, a thread of accusation weaving through her words. “You can’t believe that.”

He didn’t respond. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock, each beat echoing the emptiness that filled the space between them.

Eleanor set the cup down on the small table beside her, her movements slow and deliberate, as if the fragile porcelain might shatter at the slightest misstep. She stood up, walking slowly toward him, each step feeling like she was covering an impossible distance.

“David,” she said quietly, standing just behind him now. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he gripped the mantle as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. “We need to talk about him. We can’t just ignore it anymore.”

David closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, deep breath. “What’s there to talk about?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. “It’s done. He’s gone.”

“He’s not gone,” Eleanor said, her voice breaking. “He’s right here, in this house, in every room”

Her words caught in her throat as the door creaked open. A small figure stood in the doorway, a boy no older than seven, with tousled hair and wide, questioning eyes. He clutched a small stuffed bear to his chest, the way he used to hold it every night before bed. The bear’s fur was worn in places, patches of it missing where tiny hands had tugged at it too much.

Eleanor’s breath hitched, her heart lurching in her chest. David turned his back to the boy, his eyes returning to the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Is he hungry?” the boy asked, his voice soft, tentative.

David’s shoulders tensed. “Go to bed, Sam,” he said, his voice low, strained.

The boy didn’t move. “But—”

“Sam,” Eleanor cut in, her voice shaking. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

The boy’s eyes flickered between his parents, confusion and hurt passing over his small face. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly turned and shuffled back out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Eleanor stood frozen, staring at the closed door. Her chest felt tight, like she couldn’t breathe. “We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

David didn’t respond, his eyes still fixed on the clock, its steady ticking filling the room once more.

“He’s our son, David,” she said, her voice rising with a desperation she could no longer contain.

David finally turned to face her, his expression hard, unreadable. “He was our son,” he said, his voice cold. “That’s not him anymore.”

Eleanor felt like the floor was falling out from under her. “How can you say that?” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “He’s right there. You see him, I see him—how can you just pretend?”

“That’s not him,” David said sharply, cutting her off. His voice cracked, just for a second, before he forced it back under control. “He’s gone, Eleanor. Whatever’s left… it’s not him.”

Eleanor shook her head, her tears spilling over now. “You don’t know that,” she whispered. “You don’t know anything for sure.”

David turned away from her, his hands gripping the mantle so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I do know,” he said quietly. “I know because we buried him.”

The words hung in the air like a weight, crushing the space between them. Eleanor felt like she couldn’t breathe. The room felt smaller, suffocating.

“We buried him,” David repeated, his voice softer now, as if he were saying it more to himself than to her. “He’s gone.”

“But he’s not,” Eleanor whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s still here. He comes to us every night. He speaks to us. He—”

David slammed his fist down on the mantle, his face contorting with a mixture of anger and grief. “That’s not him, Eleanor! Don’t you understand? It’s not Sam. It’s… something else. I don’t know what, but it’s not him.”

Eleanor stared at him, her body trembling. She wanted to argue, to scream that he was wrong, that their son was still here; but deep down, a part of her knew he was right. Sam wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been the same since the accident.

But she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye.

David stood there, breathing heavily, his face pale. He looked at her with hollow eyes, eyes that had lost all hope. “We have to let him go,” he said softly. “It’s the only way we can move on.”

Eleanor shook her head, backing away from him. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t let him go. He’s still our son.”

David looked at her, his expression softening for the first time. “He was our son,” he said quietly. “But whatever’s here now... it’s not him. We have to face that.”

Eleanor’s heart ached, but she couldn’t bring herself to agree. She couldn’t say the words. She turned away from him, walking slowly back to the chair by the window. She sat down, picking up the cold teacup again, though she didn’t drink. She just stared out the window at the darkening sky, her thoughts swirling in a haze of grief and confusion.

David stood there for a long time, watching her, his face full of sadness. Finally, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving her alone in the silence - the ticking of the clock the only sound that remained.

The door creaked open again, and the boy stood in the doorway, looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.

Eleanor didn’t turn around.

“I’m hungry,” he said softly.