The morning was quiet.
Not silence - the kind you get in grief or aftermath but intentional quiet. Designed. Managed. You could feel it in the soft ventilation hum, the noise-canceling glass, the absence of anything that wasn’t chosen to be there.
Leo was on the floor of the sunroom, building something out of magnetic tiles. A tower, maybe. Or a wall. He hadn’t said.
Erica watched him from the kitchen island, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand. The mug was stoneware, locally made. She could tell. Nothing in this house was random. Every plate, every chair, every photograph on the wall had been placed with the precision of someone who didn’t just own the space but controlled it.
She wasn’t sure if that comforted her or terrified her.
Michael entered quietly, barefoot, in a long-slee
