|Gryphon's POV|
The morning is quiet in that deceptive, liminal way—where the world is still half-asleep but pretending to be awake. A golden hush settles over the penthouse like a secret, soft and slow, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows in molten rays that drape the room in something close to divinity. I blink into the light, letting it sting my eyes, and stretch my hand across the silk-sheeted expanse beside me—
But she's not there.
Serena.
The imprint of her body still lingers—heat trapped in the folds of the sheets, her scent soaked into the pillow, the faintest smear of wine-colored lipstick on the edge of the blanket where she must have turned away in sleep. But the bed is cold now, too still, too empty.
And then I hear it.
Piano.
Not loud. Not deliberate. No grand
