The morning broke Gray. Mist clung low over the fields, pressing the estate into a kind of damp hush. James stood at the tall window of the bedroom, shirt loose, hair unkempt from another night with little sleep. His hands pressed the sill so hard the veins stood out along his wrists. He had told himself he would rise early, find clarity, perhaps even walk the grounds to clear the brume in his chest. Instead, he found himself staring at nothing—the blur of hedgerows, the vague line of the lane disappearing into fog.
Behind him, the house ticked awake: pipes groaning faintly, the distant click of Penelope in the kitchen. Her presence had become the one rhythm holding him steady. Yet even that thread felt too fragile to bear the weight of what hung above them.
The letter was still in the d
