The morning dawned on a scene that was too perfect. Similar to the other mornings she had spent there.
A morning that lied.
The soft, golden light seemed to want to erase the previous day.
The Ashbourne house exuded calm and discipline.
Carefully folded napkins.
Plates of steaming pancakes.
A flashing Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, gold and silver, as perfect as a postcard.
Everything seemed false, like a movie with the sound turned off.
Catarina slowly descended the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other clutching her phone.
Her fingers trembled slightly, but she did her best to ignore it.
She hadn't slept.
Her eyes, fixed on the overly white ceiling, had followed the night until dawn.
Every noise made her jump: a creaking floor, a door closing, a step in the hallway.
Sometimes she thought she heard his voice.
Downstairs, Althea was humming.
Oversized red sweater, messy hair, cheeks rosy from the cold.
She was talking to her father while buttering a stack of pancakes, her energy contrasting sharply with the silence hanging in the room.
"Dad, do you want maple syrup or honey?"
"Whatever you want," replied Sylus without looking up from his newspaper.
Catarina paused on the bottom step.
The scene could have been beautiful.
But she looked at it as one looks at a painting too bright to be true.
Althéa looked up and saw her.
"Oh! You're awake! I thought you were still asleep. Come on, I made pancakes like the ones at the café in town."
The word "café" resonated.
Catarina felt her heart contract.
She forced a smile.
"Thank you... it smells good."
Her voice trembled just enough to go unnoticed.
She sat down opposite Althea, while Sylus slowly turned the page of his newspaper.
He didn't look at her, but she could feel his gaze nonetheless, heavy, burning, silent.
The kind that said: I remember.
"Did you sleep well?" he finally asked, in a neutral tone.
"Yes... very well," she lied.
Althéa poured syrup and laughed.
"You know, Dad doesn't snore at all. I slept next to his room my whole childhood, never a sound. Crazy, isn't it?"
"Althéa," he protested softly.
"What? It's true!"
Catarina smiled mechanically.
She watched every gesture, every word, every silence.
Everything seemed perfectly in place. And yet, everything sounded false.
Sylus's newspaper was upside down.
His fingers trembled slightly as he raised his cup to his lips.
Black coffee, no sugar. Just like at the café.
Catarina felt nauseous.
She turned her head toward the window.
Outside, snow covered everything: the garden, the fence, the trees.
An absolute white, almost violent.
"Do you want to go out this afternoon?" Althea suggested.
"Where?"
"To the Christmas market! There are lights everywhere, and they make hot chocolate with giant marshmallows."
"Oh... that would be nice," Catarina whispered.
Sylus slowly folded his newspaper.
"Be careful if you go out. The roads are slippery."
"Yes, Dad, don't worry."
"I'm not worried. Just warning you."
His words sounded like a confession. Or something else.
Catarina felt her cheeks flush.
She wanted to run away, but Althea's voice anchored her there:
"Dad, are you coming with us?"
Sylus looked up.
For a second, their eyes met.
Quickly. Almost imperceptibly.
But long enough to rekindle the fire they had tried to extinguish.
"No," he replied calmly. "I have work to do."
"Oh, what a shame!"
Althéa shrugged, swallowed a bite, and continued talking about this and that.
Catarina pretended to listen.
Her body screamed to flee, but her feet remained rooted to the spot.
After breakfast, she helped clear the table.
Her fingers brushed against Sylus's cup.
Still warm.
A tiny detail, but enough to reopen the wound.
He got up at the same moment, took his jacket, and approached the door.
"I'll be in the office. Don't disturb me before noon."
His voice was calm, but his gaze conveyed something else: a spark, a tension.
When he passed behind her, his shoulder brushed hers.
Barely.
But her whole body froze.
"Catarina?" he whispered.
She closed her eyes. Didn't answer.
He left.
The rest of the morning unfolded in perfect illusion.
Althea talked, laughed, hummed.
Catarina nodded, half-responding.
She watched herself acting like a stranger.
Everything seemed normal.
And yet nothing was.
When Althea went up to her room, Catarina finally allowed herself to breathe.
She placed her hands on the table, closed her eyes, and tried to calm down.
But the air burned her throat.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the previous day again:
the hall, the fire, his words, his voice, his hand.
Everything.
She wished it had been a dream.
But her body knew it wasn't.
Footsteps behind her.
Her heart raced.
She turned around.
Sylus was there, again, as always.
In the doorway.
No jacket, shirt open, eyes sunken.
"Aren't you cold?" he asked.
"No."
"Are you planning to leave today?"
"Yes... after lunch."
A silence.
Then, more quietly:
"It's better this way."
She nodded.
Two silhouettes in the white morning light, separated by a table, a world, and a lie they both carried.
"Catarina."
His voice made her shiver.
She looked up.
"Don't ever do that again," he said.
"Do what?"
"Loving me as if it were allowed."
Tears welled up in her eyes.
But she didn't cry.
She turned on her heel and left the room without a word.
The office door closed behind her.
And the house returned to its calm.
That deceptive, almost cruel calm.
The snow continued to fall.
And the world outside remained white.