Charles' Point Of View
The heavy oak door clicked shut as I stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom, running a white towel vigorously over my damp hair. Steam still curled faintly around the doorframe behind me, and the cool air of the bedroom felt like a welcome relief against my flushed skin.
Somewhere beneath the quiet hum of the house, I could hear the faint tick of the old grandfather clock down the hall, a sound so familiar it barely registered anymore.
It had marked the passage of countless nights like this one, nights when the world outside quieted just enough to let me remember I was, first and foremost, a husband and a father, not merely a man other men feared.
