The kettle whistled; piercing, high-pitched. It startled Georgie, who had been staring out the cracked kitchen window at a row of bare walnut trees lining the dirt path to the river. She reached over with a trembling hand to silence it. Her father’s voice trailed in from the living room—gruff, overlapping itself in a rambling half-story about the chimney bricks they’d replaced decades ago. He wasn’t talking to her. Not really. He never seemed to anymore.

“You can leave it boiling, y’know,” he called out. “Won’t make much diff’rence. Still rainin’ next week—soil’s too wet—planting’s gonna be late this year.”

Georgie sighed, pouring the steaming water over the small heap of chamomile she’d set in the chipped mug. Routine was the glue holding him together now, she thought. Steadfast, hidden glue. She carried the mug into the living room, her thick wool socks whispering against the hardwood floor.

“Tea,” she said, placing it on the small oak table by his side.

“Only you drink that stuff,” her father replied, though he was already fumbling for the handle. His lined face, leather-tough from decades in the sun, softened by a fraction as the warmth touched his fingers. “Thanks, though.”

Georgie settled across from him in the patchy armchair, inwardly wincing at how its springs groaned under her weight. They’d been in this room countless times since she moved back to the countryside to help after her mother’s passing a year ago—the same room, the same conversationless silence punctuated by the occasional weather report. But today felt different. Looser.

“…You hear from Carrie?” her father muttered, breaking the momentary lull. His gaze flickered sideways, landing briefly on her before returning to the mug. His question was casual, but the voice fractured at the end.

“She sent a letter last week,” Georgie replied, her voice quiet. Carrie, her younger sister, had left the village years ago for a brighter, noisier life in the city. She wrote sometimes, mostly shallow updates—new promotions, a gallery opening, the name of a man she’d started seeing—but never called. Never visited. Their father didn’t know these letters came; Georgie would fold and tuck them into a drawer after reading, sure he wouldn’t want to know.

“She… uh… she doing alright?” he asked. He looked older somehow, though he hadn’t moved.

“Yeah,” Georgie said quickly. “She’s fine.”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped him, dry like brittle hay. “Fine,” he murmured as though testing the weight of the word. Then louder, “Doesn’t make no difference, anyhow. Left like she did.”

“She didn’t leave for no reason,” Georgie replied before she could stop herself. The words hung uncomfortably in the air between them, a gaping, widening distance.

He looked at her, finally meeting her eyes. One eyebrow twitched, his face tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “Just that… Carrie always said she couldn’t—didn’t want to fight anymore. Said the house was too quiet after… after Mom’s accident and all we ever said to her was what she did wrong.”

“Wasn’t all I said,” he snapped, defensive but unsure. “Only tried raising her proper! Kept us together, didn’t it? Fine kind of thanks we get.”

“It’s not about thanks, Dad,” Georgie said, her voice softening as it cracked open. Suddenly, the missing pieces of so many untidy arguments over the years fit together in her mind. “After all this time, do you even know what Carrie wanted? What any of us wanted?”

“What are you saying?” His face reddened, the same stubborn tension hardening his jaw. But she caught it—a flicker of uncertainty, the shadow of something unspoken.

“I’m saying… maybe it’s not too late,” Georgie ventured. “It doesn’t have to stay as it is—us glued together just for the sake of sticking.”

His knuckles whitened around the mug. He seemed ready to argue, but the words stumbled in his throat. In that pause, something cracked. A chink in the armor he’d worn for decades.

“What… what would I even say?” He fumbled like a boy caught unprepared. His voice, no longer gruff, was frayed at the edges.

“Just start small,” Georgie said, leaning forward. The chair groaned again, almost comical in its timing. “Tell her about the walnut trees, or the kettle. Even if it doesn’t seem like much.”

Her father stared down at the tea, steam rising and curling like ghostly vines. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

The room, for the first time in years, felt alive.