The brass key remained where Richard had left it.
Morning sunlight spilled across the polished table, catching the worn edges of the old metal until it gleamed softly between the untouched teacups. It wasn’t ornate. It carried no jewels or family crest. Time had polished away every unnecessary detail, leaving only the quiet evidence that it had been used countless times before being forgotten.
Elena looked at it without reaching for it.
Some objects carried stories long before anyone spoke them aloud.
Outside the French windows, a gentle breeze wandered through the camellia bushes. White petals drifted lazily across the lawn before settling on the damp stone paths below.
Richard watched them with distant eyes.
Your grandmother loved mornings like this.
Elena followed his gaze.
She
