My Dad’s Quiet Rules

Let’s talk about Dad… Dad never explains rules dramatically. He just behaves as if they already exist and everyone reasonable should understand them automatically.
Very police officer mentality.

His apartment in #C. always smells like coffee, cigarettes, newspapers, cold air from the terrace, and occasionally rain coming from the sea before storms arrive. There are unwritten rules there too.

Don’t touch his case files.
Don’t interrupt when he’s reading.
Coffee matters.
Music should sound lived-in.
And if something breaks… You fix it instead of pretending it didn’t happen.

Simple.

This weekend he came home late Saturday still wearing exhaustion on his face like part of the uniform. Adults underestimate how visible stress becomes once you know someone well. He made espresso at midnight and stood near the windows smoking while old Genovese songs played quietly in the kitchen. I asked if police work ever scares him. He said: “People scare me, work is just work.” Then immediately changed subject and asked about school because emotional honesty in this family must never exceed twelve consecutive seconds.

Understandable.

The strange thing is that despite the cigarettes and silence and strictness, his apartment feels emotionally safer than many louder places. Maybe because nothing fake survives there very long.

RULES.
Remember me,
Eclipse