That morning, the Blackwood mansion was silent — the kind of silence that comes when everyone is too sad or worried to speak. The sky outside was gray, and the wind rattled softly against the tall windows. Inside, every sound seemed louder than usual — the faint ticking of the wall clock, the quiet rustle of the nanny's movements upstairs, the slow footsteps echoing through the long hallway.
In the sitting room, Charles and Victoria Blackwood sat side by side on the large sofa. Neither of them had spoken for a while. Victoria's hands were clasped tightly together in her lap, her knuckles pale. Charles sat stiffly, staring at the floor. Their faces were drawn and tired, heavy with shock and disbelief.
