A mother stands behind her two sons in the quiet stillness of their living room, her hands resting on their shoulders—not quite comforting, not quite distant. One son grips a basketball, shaped by her approval. The other holds a game controller, shaped by her absence. Between them hangs an unspoken divide neither of them created, but both were forced to live inside. In the doorway behind them, a shadow lingers—a reminder that in another version of this moment, someone has already left, and nothing was ever the same.