Zane stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared but distant, as the staff moved quietly around the secret room where he used to draw.
The butler had kept his word.
There was no coldness here, no awkward tension, no whispered fear in the air. The staff worked with careful reverence, as though they knew this room mattered, as though they could feel that it held something fragile.
One of them had asked if he would like his meals prepared, another if he wanted a bath run upstairs. Zane had waved it all away with a distracted lift of his hand, appetite long gone, body present but mind elsewhere.
He watched as they cleaned—slow strokes, careful hands lifting items as though they might bruise memory itself. When one of the younger staff picked up a canvas a little too casually, Zane's voice cut in before he realized he had spoken.
"Be careful."
The staff member startled, apologizing immediately, gripping the canvas with renewed caution.
