The Ayala mansion lay unusually still that night. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, pouring pale beams across polished marble floors, stretching shadows along the walls, and wrapping every piece of furniture in an eerie hush. Each creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the curtains, felt magnified—pressing against Ion’s senses until the room itself seemed to thrum with hidden secrets. Even the faint hum of the air conditioning grew loud in the silence, like a ghostly murmur carrying an unspoken warning.
Ion Ayala sat on the leather sofa, a photo album heavy in his lap. His fingers traced the edges of its worn leather cover—soft in spots from decades of use, yet sturdy enough to hold countless moments frozen in time. The album had always lived tucked away in the liv
