The night smelled of rain and old stone.
Serena Maxwell stood before the townhouse door — The Nest — the one place that had come to mean safety again.
The place Charlton bought for them years ago, when their love was still innocent enough to be believed in.
It had become home once more.
At least, that's what she told herself.
But standing there, drenched and trembling, she could still feel the weight of Christopher's gaze — the echo of his words in the carriage.
Ghosts rarely obey their own funerals.
Her fingers tightened around the key.
For a moment, she thought she couldn't make herself move. Then the key turned, the lock clicked softly, and the door opened with a whisper.
Warm lamplight greeted her — faint, left burning by habit. The scent of tobacco lingered in the air; Charlton's, rich and steady.
