The village always looked different at night.
Not because it changed.
But because silence made everything feel more honest.
Titus stood outside the family compound long after sunset, his hands buried in his pockets, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He had returned earlier than usual, but something inside him delayed the act of stepping in.
As if the air itself was warning him.
Inside, voices were already rising.
Laughter.
A meal being shared.
The kind of warmth he used to observe from outside.
But tonight, even that warmth felt distant.
Unwelcoming.
He finally stepped in.
The moment he entered, the atmosphere shifted—but not toward him.
Past him.
As if he was simply passing through a space that no longer required acknowledgment.
His brother sat at the center of the room, confident, relaxed, speaking freely with their father. Lina was there too.
That alone made Titus pause.
She didn’t look up immediately.
Not quickly.
Not naturally.
When she finally did, her smile was faint.
Careful.
Controlled.
“Titus,” she said softly.
A greeting that no longer carried familiarity.
He nodded once.
That was all.
His father barely glanced at him.
“Sit,” he said, not unkindly—but not invitingly either.
Titus sat at the edge.
As always.
The edge of the room.
The edge of attention.
The edge of belonging.
Dinner continued.
But something was different.
Not in what was being said.
In what was not being said.
His brother spoke more tonight.
About plans.
About opportunities.
About things Titus used to be excluded from without explanation.
Their father listened attentively.
Nodded approvingly.
Even laughed.
Titus noticed something small.
But important.
No one interrupted him.
No one corrected him.
No one reminded him of his place.
It was subtle.
But clear.
Recognition was...