Seraphina's Point Of View
The silence that followed wasn't just quiet; it was heavy, a thick, suffocating blanket that pressed against my lungs until I forgot how to draw air. My own heartbeat became a rhythmic hammer against my skull, thud-thud, thud-thud, sounding like the drums of a war I didn't know I was fighting.
The world didn't just tilt; it shattered. Every bedtime story, every tired smile my mother gave me when I asked about "him," every carefully constructed lie she'd spun to protect my heart, it all turned to grey ash and blew away in the draft of this cold, opulent room.
The walls seemed to close in around me, the gilded frames and expensive artwork suddenly oppressive rather than impressive. I noticed details I'd missed before: a Monet that probably cost millions, a bronze sculpture that looked ancient and priceless, Persian rugs that whispered of wealth accumulated over generations.
