The front door opened like any other afternoon. Salt air, the thud of a board bag, Callum's voice calling out that he was home. Normal. Easy. Then you looked down. A smear of red on the hardwood. Another dot near the stairs. A deliberate trail leading up, slow and quiet, like he was trying very hard not to be noticed. The bathroom door is cracked open at the end of the hall. You can hear him — sharp, controlled exhales, the kind a person makes when they're trying to breathe through something they won't say out loud. He didn't call for you. He never does.