Three days passed in a strange, suspended quiet.
Willow moved through Victor's mansion like someone learning gravity again, slow steps, careful breaths, long moments of staring at nothing. Victor did not push her. He kept everyone away, pared conversations down to only what was needed, and treated the house like a quarantine zone built for her recovery.
The hours bled together in a slow, muted rhythm. She woke, ate the meals Victor quietly arranged, sat near windows she barely saw, and drifted through afternoons without speaking unless she had to. The mansion, usually a place that hummed with quiet purpose, felt softer now. Lights dimmed. Voices lowered. Footsteps softened. Even the staff moved differently around her, as if afraid that one wrong sound might undo the fragile thread holding her upright.
