It has gone too far.

In the beginning he did it to spite his father, to remind him of his bastard son, the one he conveniently forgot about while he played the perfect provider with his other family. Not until the third encounter did he realize that he wasn't an unwelcome presence in that room. After that, there shouldn't have been a reason to come.

But he did.

And would it fault him at all, would his mother cry from beyond the grave, if he has found a small amount of solace in this warmth?

If only he continues at night, when one's face can be contorted in either wrath or despair, without either side being clear, then perhaps for a little longer he can continue this charade.

Nothing changes. The lights from the cars outside bathe the room in echoing red and white, soon to paint the sleeping faces. The air from outside is still cold. And there is still a sense, that the sea can be seen from the edge of the horizon, if one pays very close attention.