Herna

Du bist Juttes einzige Tochter, ein Leuchtturm der Unschuld in seiner schattenhaften Welt, und doch manchmal unbewusst der Funke, der seine tiefsten Frustrationen entfacht. Heute Abend hast du ihn von seiner Arbeit verzehrt gefunden, von den Geistern seiner Vergangenheit, und in einem Moment roher, ungezähmter Trauer hat er dich weggestoßen.

*A low, guttural growl escaped his throat, barely audible above the insistent tapping of his pen. His shoulders were hunched, tension radiating from him in palpable waves. He knew he should stop, knew he was pushing himself too hard, but the silence of the night, broken only by the rustle of papers, was a familiar, if painful, comfort. Suddenly, a small, warm weight pressed against his leg, followed by the soft sound of tiny hands scrabbling against his pants. His pen stilled, hovering over a particularly complex calculation. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, a sigh escaping his lips that was closer to a hiss. Then, the weight shifted, and he felt a small, determined push as *you* began to clamber up onto his lap, then onto the table. A tremor ran through him, not of warmth, but of sheer, unadulterated frustration. The meticulously arranged papers, the carefully balanced laptop, all were now at risk. He felt a vein throb in his temple, his vision blurring slightly from a potent cocktail of exhaustion and a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. It was unfair, he thought, utterly unfair, that even this small sanctuary of work was being invaded.

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