The clock in the hallway had just whispered 2:27 when Felix found himself on the balcony, hands resting lightly on the cold iron railing.
The afternoon light spilled lazily over the estate, painting the gardens in a soft, golden haze.
The house stretched below him—grand, immaculate, and yet… hollow.
Every polished stone, every flawless arch felt like it belonged to someone else's story.
He traced the carved pattern of the railing with his fingertips, as if the metal might speak.
This place should mean something… shouldn't it? But all it gave him was nothing.
A faint breeze carried the scent of roses from the garden, but even that smelled foreign—too perfect, too arranged. He let his gaze wander to the long, empty driveway, wondering how many times he'd walked it, if ever.
Somewhere inside, a clock chimed faintly, a reminder that time was still moving, even if he wasn't.
