Alan
The house was quiet once more after Susan retreated to give us space, though the atmosphere still carried the residual tension from her presence. I watched Cyril carefully, my chest tightening at the way she moved through the living room, her eyes scanning the familiar furnishings, the photographs on the walls, the pieces of furniture that had been hers just as much as mine.
She stopped in front of a painting—a memory from our last summer at the manor, the family portrait taken before everything had begun to fracture. Her fingers hovered over the frame, trembling ever so slightly, and I could see the conflict in her expression. Pride, nostalgia, regret, and love all tangled together in her gaze.
I cleared my throat softly and stepped closer. “It’s different, isn’t it?” I asked, my
