In the days that followed, I tried to reach my father, but my calls went unanswered. Anna was my only link, but even she seemed distant, her responses cryptic and evasive. “Dad’s just going through a phase,” she would say, as if that explained the sudden withdrawal.
Work became my refuge. The steady routine of office hours provided a semblance of normalcy. My colleagues, unaware of the turmoil within, continued with their daily chatter. It was both comforting and isolating.
One afternoon, while I was buried in paperwork, my boss, Mr. Harris, called me into his office. “I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit off lately,” he said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Is everything alright at home?”
His question caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s nothing, really,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Just some family stuff.”
He nodded, though his expression remained skeptical. “If you need time off or someone to talk to, my door’s always open,” he offered.
“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched by his offer. But the idea of taking time off felt impossible. The office was my anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
That evening, as I made my way home, the city lights flickered to life, casting a warm glow on familiar streets. It was then that I realized how much I missed the simplicity of my childhood, when the world seemed so much bigger, yet less intimidating.
Back at my apartment, I found myself staring at the letter again, hoping for some hidden meaning. But it remained unchanged, a stark reminder of the new reality I had to face.
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