The mansion was silent when Adam returned.
Too silent.
Even the ticking of the antique clock in the entryway seemed to mock him—each second a hollow echo of everything he said, everything he didn't.
The words he could never take back.
He didn't take off his coat. Didn't head to the master bedroom, where the air was cold and the bed untouched. He should've gone there. But something pulled him elsewhere—like gravity or guilt or grief, dragging his feet through the halls.
He found himself standing before her door.
Sofia's.
His hand hesitated on the knob. He'd promised himself he wouldn't open it. Not again. Not when the scent of her still clung to the cracks in the walls like perfume and memory.
But the ache in his chest gave him no choice.
He turned the knob.
