The Andreyevna estate was silent that night. The spring air outside was cool and gentle, carrying with it the smell of damp soil and faint blossoms. But inside, the silence was heavy, thick, and suffocating.
In his study, Alexander sat at his desk. His elbows rested on the dark wood, his fingers lightly touching the edge of the parchment sheets spread before him. They were filled with reports, letters, and documents he was supposed to sign. Yet not a single word on them had been read. His eyes were fixed on the papers, but his mind was far away, drifting into places he did not want to go.
The candle before him burned low, casting long shadows on the walls. His face looked older in that dim light, not only from age but from the weight of secrets, guilt, and fear. He rubbed his temple with his hand but found no peace.
A knock came at the door. Soft, hesitant. He did not look up.
"Papa," a familiar voice called gently. It was Elena.
