Olivia stood before Isabella's door. She knocked once—a sharp, impatient rap that felt too loud in the oppressive silence of the hallway.
No answer. Only a hollow, mocking stillness. True to her nature, Olivia didn't wait for a second attempt; she gripped the cold brass handle, turned it, and stepped inside.
"Isabella?"
The room was a tomb. The bed was stripped of its usual disarray, the sheets pulled taut and meticulous, as if its occupant had intended never to return. There was no discarded shawl on the chaise, no half-read book left face-down on the nightstand.
Even the air felt stagnant, heavy with the scent of lavender and something sharper—stale salt. Olivia's eyes darted across the vacancy, her heart hammering against her ribs with a sudden, sickening rhythm. It was a room scrubbed of life, a space prepared for a disappearance.
Then, a small, creak.
