I sit in the deep silence of the study, a solitary island in a sea of dark wood and leather. The only light is a single, elegant lamp, casting a warm, intimate pool over the vast, polished desk.
Outside, the world is a hushed, snowy black. Inside, the air is thick with the weight of unanswered questions.
Spread before me isn't a business file or a contract.
It's an album.
A family album.
Heavy. Expensive.
Dusty from neglect.
Bound in the finest burgundy leather, its surface gleaming under the light.
It feels less like a book and more like a tomb—a tomb for a family that no longer exists.
In the novel, the author dismisses it all with a single, careless line:
Zyren and Moon had a falling out in their youth. A little fight.
A childish squabble.
But after today, after the way Moon looks at me, touches me… that explanation is ash. A child's crayon drawing trying to cover a masterpiece of pain.
