The sun had already dipped past its peak, casting long, slanting shadows across the living room. It was well past lunch, yet the small house felt unnervingly still. The usual hum of the television had faded into silence, replaced only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Ethea sat in her usual spot, but her attention was nowhere near the screen. Her gaze remained fixed on the front door. Every few minutes, her eyes would drift toward the handle, lingering there with a quiet, burning intensity before she caught herself and looked away. This cycle repeated in the heavy quiet, a silent vigil that she seemed unable to break.
Lady Clara watched her from the kitchen doorway, her hands resting idly on a drying cloth. A complex wave of emotion pulled at her heart. As a woman, she understood the ache of a waiting heart. She knew the specific, hollow weight that settled in the chest when the person who had become your entire world was out in the path of danger.
