The Bookbinder's Brew was quiet, save for the soft clinking of glasses and the occasional shuffle of footsteps across the worn wooden floor. Dim light from old brass sconces flickered against the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and waver with the passing of time. The pub felt heavy, as if the air itself had absorbed years of whispered conversations and forgotten memories, weighed down by the sadness of its patrons.
Duncan Brady sat at the far end of the bar, his large hands wrapped loosely around a half-empty glass of whiskey. He stared into the amber liquid, the dim light reflecting off its surface like a muted sunset. His face, worn and expressionless, gave away nothing. His eyes, hollow yet sharp, scanned the glass as if searching for something just beneath the surface, but whatever it was, it wasn’t there.
The bartender, a stout man with thinning hair and a tired face, glanced in Duncan’s direction. He had served Duncan enough times to know better than to ask questions. Instead, he quietly wiped the bar with a cloth, his gaze drifting over the man who sat like a fixture, as much a part of the furniture as the battered stools and faded posters on the walls.
Duncan raised the glass to his lips, pausing just for a moment. His hand, though steady, had a slight tremor that was barely noticeable unless one was paying close attention. He took a sip, letting the whiskey burn its way down, but his face remained as still as stone. No sigh of contentment, no grimace of distaste—just cold, practiced indifference.
The room around him seemed to echo his silence. The hum of the lights, the dull chatter of a few regulars in the corner, all blurred into the background. He was alone, not just in the bar, but in his mind—a fortress built on apathy and guarded by years of quiet suffering. His eyes shifted briefly to the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A distorted version of himself stared back—familiar, but distant, as if the man in the glass had been someone else once, but now was just a shell.
The bartender set a fresh bottle down within reach, his movements slow, deliberate. He hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if Duncan would acknowledge him. But when no words came, he moved away, leaving Duncan to his thoughts. The silence returned, thicker than before, pressing against the walls of the pub like an invisible weight.
Duncan glanced briefly toward the door, as if expecting someone, though the look was fleeting. His focus returned to the drink, and he raised it again, taking another slow sip. The warmth of the whiskey barely touched him, lost in the numbness that had settled into his bones.
Time moved sluggishly in The Bookbinder's Brew, and Duncan moved with it, or rather, he didn’t move at all. He simply existed in the space between drinks, between thoughts, between the past and the present, waiting for something he wasn’t sure he even wanted.
The door to The Bookbinder's Brew creaked open, letting in a brief gust of cold air from the Maraheim streets. Duncan barely registered the sound, his focus still on the whiskey in front of him, the dim amber glow catching in his vacant gaze. Footsteps padded softly across the wooden floor, measured and deliberate, before a figure slid onto the stool beside him.
Duncan didn’t look up. The presence of others had become part of the background noise to him—a hum of life that never quite reached him. But this time, there was a different energy, a heaviness that made the air seem colder. He could feel the weight of the person sitting next to him, feel their gaze lingering on him, but he didn’t react.
After a few moments, the silence broke.
“Where were you?”
The voice was young, calm, but carrying a sharp edge—like a question held too long in the throat, waiting for release. Duncan’s grip tightened slightly on the glass, but he didn’t turn to look at the speaker. Instead, he took another drink, the whiskey burning its way down, offering no comfort.
“I’m here now,” Duncan replied, his voice flat, barely above a murmur.
Liam leaned in just a fraction, his eyes searching Duncan’s profile for something—anything. The tension between them was palpable, though Duncan’s exterior remained as cold and unyielding as ever. His indifference was an armor, shielding him from the weight of words he didn’t want to carry.
“You weren’t there when it mattered,” Liam pressed, his tone more insistent now. “Do you even care?”
Duncan finally shifted, his eyes flicking toward the young man beside him. His expression was unreadable, save for a flicker—something fleeting, almost too quick to catch—a shadow of emotion that was gone as soon as it appeared.
“Care?” Duncan’s voice was distant, almost detached, as though the question itself was irrelevant. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze once again returning to the glass in his hand. “What’s the point of caring now?”
Liam’s jaw tightened, and his fingers curled slightly into fists on the bar, though his voice remained level. “That’s all you have to say? That’s your answer after everything?”
Duncan shrugged, a slow, deliberate motion that conveyed nothing but apathy. “What do you want from me?” he asked, his tone so indifferent it almost bordered on cruel. His eyes stayed fixed on the whiskey as though it held the answer to everything—or perhaps nothing at all.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The bartender moved about in the background, his footsteps a soft rhythm against the thick atmosphere, but he kept his distance, sensing the tension that hung like a fog over the two men.
Liam stared at Duncan, his eyes hardening. “I want to know why you didn’t try. Why you didn’t even bother to be there—for Mom, for me. Where were you when I needed you?”
Duncan’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. It was more of a grimace, barely perceptible, a bitter acknowledgment of a truth he didn’t want to confront. He turned to face Liam fully for the first time, his gaze colder than the whiskey he nursed.
“I was working,” Duncan said, the words coming out flat, almost mechanical. “It’s what I did. I worked. I didn’t have time for... other things.”
Liam’s stare hardened further, his voice quiet but filled with a deep, simmering anger. “Other things? I was ‘other things’?”
Duncan held his gaze for a moment, then let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly as if the conversation itself was a burden he hadn’t asked for. He tapped the side of his glass with one finger, the sound sharp and rhythmic in the quiet room. His apathy was suffocating, as though every emotion he had once felt had long since withered away, leaving only this husk of indifference behind.
“You were what you were,” Duncan muttered. “What difference does it make now?”
Liam’s expression twisted with frustration, a storm brewing just beneath the surface of his controlled exterior. His next words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they cut through the stillness like a blade. “It should’ve made a difference then. But you never cared enough to notice.”
For a brief moment, Duncan’s mask slipped. A hint of something—regret, sorrow, maybe even guilt—flickered in his eyes, but just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by the familiar coldness that had settled into his bones long ago.
“Maybe,” Duncan said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words more for himself than for Liam. He looked away, his gaze distant, lost somewhere between the glass in front of him and the memories he had long buried.
But the tension between them remained, as thick and inescapable as the fog outside. Liam wasn’t here for apologies—he wasn’t here for forgiveness. And Duncan, it seemed, had none to give.
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