We took Keane in six months earlier, right before Owen was born.
Our parents had died a few years apart.
After a rough stretch in state housing, Keane had withdrawn even further.
When I offered him a place with us, he didn’t say anything.
He just nodded once.
Living together worked because Keane never asked for anything.
He ate whatever I cooked.
Folded his clothes into sharp, perfect edges.
Kept to himself.
He didn’t talk.
But he hummed.
Softly. Constantly.
At first it annoyed me.
Eventually it became background noise — like the refrigerator, like the clock, like life.
Until that Tuesday.
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