The fire had long since died, but the night hadn't moved.It hung over the Ashbourne house, heavy, dense, as if the world refused to turn.
Catarina had barely spoken since closing the door.In the guest room Althéa had prepared for her, pale walls, overly tidy furniture, everything seemed to breathe out of sync.
She sat on the bed, fingers trembling. Her open suitcase at her feet held nothing useful, only fragments of herself.Even her phone, lying on the nightstand, seemed to be watching her.
A message blinked on the screen, unread: a remnant from before, a thread she had never had the courage to cut.
"I miss you more than I want to admit. And yet, it's not love."
Three months old.She had read it a thousand times without ever replying.Now, it burned on the screen like a confession she could no longer deny.
She closed her eyes.The house creaked under the wind, a soft, almost living sigh.
And then, in the distance, a piano.One note, then another.A hesitant melody, played as if handling a memory too fragile to touch.
She placed a hand on the railing, hesitated.For a moment, she thought she could turn back.But the music called louder than reason.
Barefoot, she descended the stairs.Each step seemed to hold its breath.
The living room was bathed in golden, shifting light; candle flames flickered, casting ash-colored shadows on the walls.
Sylus was there.Seated at the piano, back to her.His back straight, neck tense, hands hovering over the keys.Each note seemed to cost him something.
Catarina froze midway down the stairs.She thought: if he turns, it'll all be over.But he didn't move.He kept playing, as if the music could absolve them both.
Then he stopped.Fingers suspended over the keys, he lifted his head slightly.Silence.Only the ticking clock dared to breathe.
"You're not sleeping," he said.His voice, low, almost weary, made the air vibrate.
Catarina didn't reply.
He spoke again, softer this time:"I don't blame you."
She knew he was lying.
She stepped down the remaining stairs; the floor groaned under her weight.Sylus leaned against the piano's edge.
"Althéa thinks you're here for Christmas."
"Is that what you want me to believe?"
He turned his head slowly. His gaze cut through her.
"No," he murmured. "You're here to make me pay for my sins."
A gust of wind rattled the windows.Catarina felt her breath shatter.Everything in him seemed ready to break: his voice, his posture, the mask he had worn for months.
"You knew?" she whispered.
"No."
"Not even a doubt?"
"Yes, that you were too young… but not that you were her best friend. Sometimes I wondered if you could have been her friend. But I didn't want to know."
He closed his eyes, as if to disappear.
She took a step toward him. Then another.The air between them vibrated; neither hate nor desire, something older, more dangerous.
"So why didn't you stop me?"
He offered a faint, lightless smile.
"Because you looked at me the way no one ever had."
Her throat tightened."And you chose lies over absence."
"Yes," he said.
The silence fell again, dense, almost sacred.There was nothing left to say.And yet, everything remained unsaid.