Mabel watched him approach, her smile flickering—a mix of relief in her posture, yet reluctance in how she avoided his eyes, fingers pleating the quilt. “Charlie,” she said softly, like greeting a familiar song with a hesitant note. He patted her hand, patient as morning light.
Charles settled on the sofa, turning the talk gentle. “She tends to misunderstand things when she’s tired,” he explained, voice low. “I hope she hasn’t burdened you with confused stories—old memories that tangle up.” His tone framed it as simple care, nothing more.