Melody
A week.
It surprised me how fast seven days could pass when no one was asking anything of me except to exist.
The estate has its own rhythm—mornings that start quietly, light spilling across stone floors and into the kitchen where Eleanor is already awake, tea in hand, Luca usually nearby. Afternoons that hum with movement and purpose. Evenings that soften into shared meals, low laughter, the kind of tired that comes from being surrounded rather than drained.
Most days I’m with Mark.
Not constantly—never hovering—but intentionally. Walks through the grounds. Sitting on the back steps while the sun dips low. Quiet conversations that don’t feel like interviews or negotiations. Sometimes we don’t talk at all. We just exist in the same space, close enough to feel steady, far enough
