The Maren House, Morning
The sun came through the window sideways.
The cheap, honest, morning sun of a common house — not the wide, managed light of a manor with proper drapes and east-facing glass, just the flat, unfiltered light of a window that faced whatever direction the house had been built facing, landing on a dining table that had not been cleared from last night because no one had cleared it.
The boy woke up at the table.
His cheek had been on his folded arms. He sat up now, rubbing his eyes with the backs of both fists, blinking at the room with the unhurried, untroubled assessment of a child whose body had decided it was morning and whose mind had not yet started asking questions.
He looked at his father.
His father was seated across the table.
