The house wakes before Leo does.
It’s the kind of old, expensive silence that holds onto footsteps long after the people who made them have left. The heavy walls don’t echo, but they seem to remember. Every hallway carries the ghost of something—laughter, arguments, slammed doors, and those late-night confessions that once bounced off the high ceilings back when the air felt lighter.
Leo wakes slowly.
Not because he’s rested, but because his body simply refuses to sleep any longer. The morning light spills through the heavy curtains in thin, pale ribbons, stretching across the dark wood floor. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He stares at the ceiling, counting his breaths and listening to the faint, mechanical hum of the heating system. Somewhere far away, a car passes on the street,
