One evening, as rain lashed the mansion's windows, a knock echoed through the grand foyer. James had just left Rafael's office and heading towards the living room when the knock came. His hesitated for a beat before crossing the hall, his footsteps soft against the Persian rug. When he opened the door, rain-scented air rushed in, cold and heavy. There, beneath the porch light, stood Clara Norman.
Her hood was drawn up, droplets glistening on the fabric, but he recognized her instantly. That face—soft yet worn by years of quiet endurance—belonged to a woman who had seen too much and still carried herself with grace. Though she was thirty-seven, her youthful features could have passed for someone in her mid twenties, if not for the sadness behind her eyes. Those eyes—warm, cautious, and kind—held stories of loss, resilience, and a love that once tethered her to this house through Eleanor Vexley, Rafael's late mother.
