The mansion had a silence of its own. It wasn't peaceful—it was too large, too cold, too full of echoes for that. The kind of silence that crept into your bones and reminded you just how alone you truly were.
Arina Belle had grown used to silence.
But the one surrounding Leonard Vale was different. It was layered. Not empty, but heavy. As if the quiet was guarding something—or someone—far more fragile than he let on.
It was nearing 1:30 AM.
She sat on the edge of the armchair in the corner of the lounge, a tablet in her hand, softly typing notes. Leonard was sprawled on the leather sofa, one arm over his eyes, his breathing uneven.
She watched him.
Not out of curiosity. Out of concern.
He hadn't been able to sleep in the bedroom tonight, claiming the ceiling felt "too close." So she let him wander. Let him try the sofa. Let him drift in and out of restless thoughts.
And now… now he was still.
Not asleep, not quite. But not fully awake either. That space between. That vulnerable moment where the mind surrendered just enough for the truth to leak out.
Arina's eyes softened.
His brow was furrowed, even in half-sleep. His lips slightly parted, breathing shallow. There were faint lines under his eyes—more from years of exhaustion than age—and a tension in his jaw that refused to ease.
He looked powerful when awake.
He looked broken now.
She lowered her tablet.
Stepping quietly toward him, she knelt beside the sofa, careful not to disturb him. She didn't touch—just observed. A nurse's gaze, yes… but something gentler threaded through it tonight. Something human.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"What are you hiding, Mr. Vale?"
The question wasn't meant for him to answer.
Still, a flicker passed over his face. A twitch in his fingers. A sigh so faint, she nearly missed it.
---
Earlier that Night
It had started with data.
Arina had begun tracking his sleep patterns after the first few nights. Cortisol cycles, melatonin dips, heart rate, ambient room shifts—all through a silent monitoring device she'd installed under his mattress with permission.
But tonight, she wanted more than numbers.
She wanted to see him.
She needed to understand not just what kept him awake—but why.
So when he wandered downstairs with a scotch in hand and a tight expression, she followed—not as a shadow, but as a quiet constant. She sat a few feet away, noting every movement.
At first, he ignored her.
He flipped through television channels without settling on one, swirled his drink without sipping, and muttered something about "pointless routines." Arina said nothing. She simply watched.
Eventually, he muttered, "Don't you have a room to rest in?"
Her answer was soft. "Only if you're asleep first."
He glanced at her, annoyed—but it was shallow. There was something almost grateful in the way he looked away again.
"I hate this hour," he murmured, voice low. "It always feels like something's about to snap."
Arina nodded slowly. "It's the loneliest time of night."
He turned to her then. "Is that what you think this is? Loneliness?"
"No," she replied. "That's what I feel in your breathing."
His lips parted as if to respond, but nothing came.
---
Now
Leonard stirred, just slightly, and Arina leaned back to give him space. She returned to her seat quietly, pulling the blanket over him as she did.
It was rare, this kind of trust.
Men like Leonard didn't let people see them this way. Vulnerable. Unguarded.
And yet… here he was.
Arina sat back in the chair and reopened her tablet, typing quietly:
"Night Observation: Subject appears physically relaxed when removed from formal setting (i.e. bedroom). Facial tension remains high during semi-sleep. Indicates mental unrest. Possible unresolved trauma. Note: Responds better to presence than to medication. Comfort is psychological."
She paused, then added:
"Conclusion: He doesn't need to be fixed. He needs to be understood."
---
Somewhere near 3:00 AM, Leonard shifted again.
"Still awake?" he murmured, voice thick with fatigue.
Arina looked up. "Just watching over you."
He didn't open his eyes, but his lips curved ever so slightly. "That sounds more like a threat than a comfort."
She smiled. "Depends on the nurse."
He let out a tired chuckle—brief, but real.
Then silence again.
Until—"You don't ask questions."
Arina tilted her head. "Would you answer them if I did?"
"Probably not," he admitted.
"Then I'll ask when you're ready to speak."
He opened his eyes then, just a crack. The faintest glow from the lamp touched his irises—stormy grey, but dimmed now with exhaustion.
"You're not like the others," he said.
"I know," she replied softly.
And then, as if that truth alone made it safe—he fell asleep.
---
Just Before Dawn
Arina remained in the chair, watching the light shift outside. The house was still. Peaceful. Or something close to it.
She stood up quietly and approached the sofa one last time. Leonard was fully asleep now, breathing evenly.
She took the blanket and adjusted it slightly, tucking it near his shoulder. Her fingers brushed against the bare skin of his forearm.
Warm.
Human.
She lingered a moment too long.
Then stepped back.
---
In Her Own Room
She scribbled a handwritten note into her journal before resting:
> He's not what the papers say. He's guarded, yes. Cold, yes. But that man carries a grief I can't name yet.
I wonder who hurt him so deeply that he built a mansion just to be alone inside it.
> Tonight, for a moment… he let the walls breathe.
> And maybe, just maybe… he's not the only one healing.