That evening, the storm returned. Wind battered the manor, and the walls groaned as if alive. Eleanor found herself pacing the library, Isabella's letters clutched in her hand.
Nathaniel entered, rain dripping from his cloak. His eyes softened when he saw her.
"You look as though the shadows themselves chase you," he murmured.
"They do," she admitted before she could stop herself. Tears spilled. "Nathaniel, I cannot bear it alone any longer. This house… these ghosts… they want something of me. And I fear I cannot give it."
Without hesitation, he crossed to her, gathering her into his arms. His embrace was strong, steady, a fortress against the storm.
"You are not alone," he whispered against her hair. "Not while I draw breath."
Eleanor clung to him, her heart warring with fear and longing. "But Isabella warned me not to trust you."
His breath stilled. Slowly, he drew back to meet her gaze. "And do you believe her?"
