The Empty Room
Morning came heavy and gray. The rain had stopped, but the air felt thick — as if the mansion itself was holding its breath. Clara woke early, stirred by unease that hadn't left since the night before. She wrapped a shawl over her shoulders and stepped out of her room.
Something was wrong.
The usual hum of the household — the quiet shuffle of maids, the faint scent of Eleanor's morning tea — was missing. Everything was still.
"Mrs. Eleanor?" Clara called softly as she knocked on the older woman's door. No answer.
She tried again, this time pushing the door slightly open. The sight that met her froze her in place.
The study was in disarray — drawers half-open, papers scattered, and the faint smell of perfume lingering in the air. But the most alarming thing was the overturned teacup near the desk, a small brown stain spreading into the rug.
Her heart began to race. "Eleanor?" she whispered again.
Ethan appeared behind her moments later, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp from lack of sleep. "What's going on?"
"She's gone," Clara said, voice trembling.
He entered the room, scanning every corner, his instincts immediately switching into control. "The window's unlocked," he muttered. "And there are tire marks outside."
Clara looked at him, panic flickering in her eyes. "You think she was taken?"
"I think," Ethan said grimly, "someone didn't want her to talk."
He crouched near the desk, spotting a torn piece of envelope on the floor. It bore part of Eleanor's handwriting — a list of names. Marcus. Isabella. Clara froze when she saw her own name written faintly beneath them.
"She knew something," Clara whispered. "And now—"
Ethan straightened slowly, his jaw tightening. "We'll find her."
But deep down, both of them felt the same chill — this wasn't just another family problem. Someone had crossed a line.