Silas closed his eyes. The silence stretched on, no longer a weapon, but a crushing weight. When he opened them again, the icy harshness had vanished, replaced by a weary mist, the mist of an old man.
“Because,” said Silas, his voice breaking for the first time in his life, “if I had let you in while you were crying, I would have had to admit that I didn’t know how to comfort you. And I… I was never allowed to be a man who didn’t know the answer.”
He reached out, trembling, and placed his heavy palm on the table between them. He didn’t try to reach her—that would have been too much, too fast—but he left the door open.
« The security lock, » he murmured, « was for my own fear, Maya. Not yours. »
Maya looked at his hand, then at me. The judge had assigned this class to teach Silas a lesson, but at that precise moment, the lesson was being taught to him by the grace of a ten-year-old girl. She reached out and touched his sleeve.
« Don’t worry, Grandpa, » she said gently. « Anyway, the judge said you have to leave the door unlocked now. »
A ghostly smile appeared on Silas’s face – not a smirk of superiority, but a sincere and regretful acknowledgment of his own defeat.
As we pulled into the parking lot bathed in the bright June sun, Silas stopped near my car. He gazed at the rolling hills of Connecticut, then turned his gaze back to the community center.
« David, » he said without looking at me. « The court-ordered sessions… they end next month. »
« I know, Dad. »
« I would like to continue. Voluntarily. » He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and walked towards his car without adding another word.
He was still Silas. He was still difficult. But as I watched him drive away, I understood that, for the first time since my mother’s death, the house in Canaan was no longer just a fortress. It was a house with windows ajar, letting in fresh air.
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