Leonard stood in front of his father's office door for longer than necessary. It still bore the faint scuff mark from when he'd kicked it years ago, a teenager's anger turned physical in a moment of fury. He remembered the sting in his foot more than the argument itself.
He exhaled quietly and pushed the door open.
The scent hit him first. Leather-bound books, old parchment, cigar smoke that lingered even though Winston hadn't smoked indoors for years. Time had preserved the office like a mausoleum, each object neatly placed, untouched since his father's death.
Leonard walked inside slowly, as if afraid the room might collapse with a single touch. The grandfather clock still ticked in the corner. His father had hated silence. "Even silence must be filled with purpose," his father used to say.