Draven's pov
The mansion felt colder than ever the moment I stepped back inside. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer, every corner darker, as if the very walls had absorbed the tension between Eira and me. She was here, yes, but it was like living with a ghost,present in body but miles away in spirit. My attempts to reach her were met with a frosty silence or a cutting remark that pierced deeper than any blade.
I remember the first night after we returned from the hospital. I sat across from her in the vast living room, the silence so thick it was suffocating. I tried to speak, to bridge the widening gap.
"Eira, please. I'm here. I want to help. I'm sorry." My voice was low, careful,fragile, almost.
She didn't look up. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, her expression unreadable. Then, without any warmth, she said, "Sorry doesn't fix blood, Draven."
