The dawn that broke over the Martin mansion carried no warmth for Lydia. The golden rays filtered gently through the tall glass windows, but she felt nothing of their beauty. Her hands, rough and tired, trembled slightly as she scrubbed the marble floor of the long corridor. Every sweep of her brush echoed in the empty mansion — an endless rhythm of servitude, sorrow, and reflection.
She paused for a moment, sitting back on her heels, and let her gaze travel to the far end of the corridor where the large portrait of Mr. Martin hung. His face — kind, composed, commanding yet gentle — seemed to look back at her with unspoken words. It reminded her of peace, of protection, and of the promises that had been made before he left for the United Kingdom.
A lump rose in her throat.
“Oh, Mr. Mart
