The house was a tomb of silence, and I was a ghost haunting its halls.
Sleep was a distant country I couldn't find the map to. I had left the sterile confines of the study and wandered into the main living room, a cavernous space of high ceilings and cold marble floors that swallowed sound and light whole. The city lights stretched out below the massive window, a sprawling, glittering galaxy that felt a world away from the suffocating tension of this house. I stood with my hands in my pockets, the note from the archive a cold, heavy secret against my thigh, its edges seeming to burn with a latent fire. I was just... waiting.
The sound of the main door opening was a sharp, jarring intrusion. But it wasn't Charles's usual solitary, decisive entry. There were voices. A woman's voice, low and hesitant, followed by the soft, murmured reassurance of Charles's. And then there was another sound. A small, unmistakable patter of running feet on the stone entryway.
