The apartment was quiet.
Not the curated quiet of Lucas's penthouse—where silence was expensive, engineered by soundproof glass and the sixty-seventh floor's distance from the street. That silence had always felt like a held breath.
This was different.
This was the sound of no one else breathing.
Elara set the box down by the window. Not because the light was better there, but because she needed a moment before unpacking. Her fingers found the tape seam, pressed, then stopped.
She looked at the wall instead.
It was white. Ordinary white. Not Venetian plaster. Not backlit. Just… wall.
She touched it.
The surface was slightly cool. Slightly textured. Her palm stayed flat against it for three seconds. Four.
Then she lowered her hand and turned away.
---
The coffee maker was the first thing she unpacked.
