Palace of Versailles, France
Late December 1837
Morning came slowly to Versailles in winter, and it always did so in a way that felt almost deliberate.
The light did not rush in through the tall windows or flood the room with warmth. Instead, it crept forward, pale and restrained, brushing against the glass before slipping inside in thin layers. At first, it barely touched anything. Then, little by little, it spread across the floor, across the table, across the walls, until the room was no longer dark, but not fully bright either.
Outside, the gardens lay silent under a thin layer of frost.
The long paths stretched outward in perfect lines, untouched at this hour. The hedges held their shape, trimmed with care even in the cold, and the trees stood bare, their branches thin and still against a dull gray sky. The fountains continued to run, but their movement had slowed, their flow quieter, as if even the water had adjusted to the season.
Nothing in that view suggested urgency.
