The Almost-Claim Revisited
The fireplace room felt different at night. During the day, it was comfort—stone, books, quiet French light sliding across the rugs like it had nothing urgent to do. Now the flames turned the walls amber and shadowed, and the ceiling looked higher than it should have, as if the room was making space for something heavier than conversation. The estate settled around us. Not silent. Listening. I stood near the hearth with my palms braced on the mantel, staring into the fire because looking at him felt like stepping too close to a ledge. "You've been avoiding me," Silas said behind me. Not accusing. Certain. I watched a log split inward. Sparks climbed like they had somewhere to be. "I've been thinking." "About leaving." "No." My voice came out sharper than I meant. "About that nig
- Writer
