The Quiet Day

( After some days passed )

It was Sunday. The house felt different on days like this—no footsteps echoing down the marble halls, no rush of business calls, no polished shoes lined by the door. Only sunlight, drifting lazily through half-drawn curtains, painting soft gold across the furniture.

Both Alex and Julian were home.

I moved through the morning routine as usual: dusting the piano, watering the small garden near the glass veranda, folding the laundry that smelled faintly of cedar and expensive soap. My body had learned this rhythm by now. Even the ache that lingered somewhere deep had turned dull—like a wound learning to breathe again.

From the dining room I could hear their voices.

Julian’s laughter—low, sharp, confident.

Alex’s quieter replies, always measured. It barely happens when they both talk this casually. But ever since that incident happened they became somehow close. Honestly that morning when Julian said that I don't have money but have a beautiful body. I thought that I would be molest every day even Alex was scared with Julian words but fortunately now I think he was just teasing me at that time.

For a long while, I stayed near the doorway, listening without meaning to. Sometimes they spoke of work, sometimes nothing at all. There were stretches of silence, too, the kind that used to make me anxious. Now they only made the house feel alive.

When I entered with the tea tray, Julian leaned back in his chair, half-smiling. “You’ve learned where everything goes, haven’t you?” he said, almost teasing.

“Yes, sir,” I murmured, keeping my gaze low.

Alex reached for his cup but paused when his fingers brushed mine. A brief contact—barely a second—but enough to startle me. I drew back quickly. His eyes lifted to meet mine; there was no anger there, only a quiet, unreadable softness.

“Thank you, Elias,” he said.

I nodded, heart trembling. “You’re welcome, sir.”

The rest of the morning passed with the scent of tea and slow conversation. I noticed small things—Julian pouring water for Alex without being asked, Alex setting aside a newspaper for Julian to read. Their closeness wasn’t loud; it was layered beneath small gestures that made me feel both comforted and distant.

By afternoon, I was polishing the glass shelves in the living room when Julian’s voice came again from behind me. “You can rest for a while,” he said. “You’ve been working since dawn.”

I turned, startled. He was standing there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“I’m fine, sir,” I replied softly.

He studied me for a moment, as if weighing whether I truly meant it. Then he sighed, a small sound that almost resembled concern. “Suit yourself,” he said, and left.

When I looked toward the garden, Alex was there, trimming the roses with quiet patience. He noticed me watching and gave a faint nod—neither command nor dismissal, just a silent acknowledgment of my presence. Something in that small gesture loosened the tightness inside my chest.

Maybe, I thought, not every day in this house would feel like punishment.

Maybe some days could simply pass like this—quietly, carefully, without breaking.

As evening fell, I closed the windows one by one, listening to the muted hum of the city outside. In the reflection of the glass, I saw my own figure—still small, still uncertain—but standing a little straighter than before.

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