The day lingered in a strange half-light over Regina, as though the sun itself hesitated to fully claim the sky, and within the manor's high stone walls Elara stood near the tall window of her father's old study, her fingers resting upon the polished wood of the desk that still carried faint traces of Giovanni Romano's presence, and though the room remained silent there pulsed within it a memory that refused to fade.
She had not entered this room often.
Not after his death.
Not after everything had changed.
Yet something had drawn her here.
Something quiet.
Something insistent.
"Elara."
The sound of her name did not come from behind her, nor from the hall, but from within the stillness itself, like a thought spoken too clearly to be her own, and she turned slowly, her breath catching just slightly as her eyes searched the room with growing unease.
"What the hell…"
