—Before Silas came to Crystal Country—
The room breathes in gold.
Not the harsh, electric gold of modern chandeliers—but something older. Softer. The kind of light that seems to have settled here decades ago and never found reason to leave. It drips from the high ceiling in slow, honeyed threads, catching on crystal and polished wood, spilling across the floor in shifting pools of amber.
The chandelier hangs like a frozen constellation above.
Below, the room feels intimate. Sacred. Almost confessional.
Silas sits on the couch beneath it all.
One leg is crossed over the other, his posture effortless and composed. An arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers draped lazily over the velvet. Every movement—or lack of one—carries the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
His eyes are fixed on the wall across the room.
Unblinking. Unmoving.
On the photograph.
