The return to Lyndhurst was not a grand procession. There were no paparazzi, no board members waiting with bated breath. They arrived on a crisp autumn day, the leaves on the ancient oaks blazing in fiery hues of crimson and gold. The estate, preserved by the anonymous trust, stood silent and waiting, not as a trophy, but as a sleeping giant.
The heavy oak door groaned open on hinges that hadn't moved in over a year. The air inside was still and carried the faint, familiar scent of beeswax and her grandfather’s pipe tobacco—a ghost of a happier time. Sunlight streamed through the dusty leaded glass windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the beams.
Sasha stepped across the threshold first, her artist’s eyes taking in the grand foyer, the sweeping staircase. It was both larger and
