The house did not respond to Eva’s resolve.
It remained quiet in the way large houses do—too quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The lights glowed softly, casting long reflections across polished floors, but warmth never quite reached the corners of the rooms.
Eva stood where she was for a long moment after closing the notebook.
Her fingers rested on the cover, the leather still warm from her touch. The photograph inside felt heavier now—not physically, but in meaning. She was aware of it the way one is aware of a wound beneath clothing.
She moved at last, slow and deliberate, carrying the notebook with her as she crossed into the living room.
The sofa bore no signs of use. Cushions remained precisely aligned, untouched since the housekeeper’s dismissal weeks
