By afternoon, the estate had grown unbearably still.
Eloise sat curled at the edge of the sofa, the television murmuring to itself in the background—some glossy program about people who had never known hunger, never learned how to stretch one meal into three, never buried dreams because survival demanded it. She flipped channels once, twice, then gave up.
Nothing held her attention.
The silence pressed in, heavy and artificial, like the house itself was holding its breath around her.
She exhaled sharply and stood. She wasn't a porcelain doll to be dressed and put on a shelf. She was a woman who had survived the grit of the real world, and she needed a piece of that life back before she lost her mind.
Across the room, Marcos and Leo remained where they always were—present but distant, statues in tailored black. Watching without staring. Listening without intruding.
