The mansion was quieter than usual, but that wasn't unusual. It had its own rhythm, a low hum of routine: the faint clink of silverware, the soft rustle of curtains, the occasional creak of the stairs. But Elijah's usual presence—the subtle way he moved, a shadow at her side, a reassuring nod—was missing in its usual form.
Tina tilted her head, brows furrowed, as she carried a tray of tea into the sitting room. Andrew had already taken his spot by the wide window, perched on the arm of the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, eyes flicking through the day's messages on his phone. He looked calm, perfectly at ease, a soft honey-scented glow clinging to him like a protective aura. But the glow wasn't enough to mask the tension Tina felt creeping along the edges of her chest.
"Elijah?"
She asked, trying to keep her voice casual, as though she were asking for the time rather than noticing something missing. Her voice barely carried across the polished wooden floor.
No answer.
