One week passed.
Not an empty week—there were routines to fill it, breakfast and dinner and the corridors we walked together with the same distance between us, yet somehow it felt different than before, like the same air under slightly higher pressure. Damian left earlier than usual and came home differently—not earlier, but carrying something on his shoulders that hadn't been there before that night in the library.
I waited for him to speak.
He didn't.
On the eighth day, I went up to the third floor.
---
Eight o'clock at night. Damian hadn't come down for dinner yet, which meant he was still upstairs. Mrs. Sari had already gone home. The mansion felt quieter than usual, with only the hum of the air conditioner and the wind outside the still-open window.
I walked toward the stairs.
