He found his old suite at the end of the eastern hall, tucked behind a pair of double doors lacquered in deep green. The handles were cool beneath his palm, and for a heartbeat he hesitated, breath shallow, as if expecting the room beyond to be wrong, altered, a lie.
But when the doors swung inward, it was exactly as he remembered.
The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and wax, the kind of scent that clung to old books and heavy curtains. The wide bed stood made with the same embroidered coverlet his mother had chosen, the carved posts gleaming with polish. His desk was there, stacked neatly with papers and a blotter stained with ink. The narrow wardrobe door stood half‑open, revealing folded coats and the dark sweep of uniforms he hadn't worn in years.
It was almost enough to make his chest ache. Almost.
