Sun light drifted softly through the lace curtains, spilling a gentle warmth over the parlor's faded rug and the old piano standing quietly in the corner.
Dust motes floated in the sunbeams like slow-falling snow. The house was silent except for the distant hum of a grandfather clock marking the passing seconds.
Rachel moved quietly through the room, her steps soft against the wooden floor. She carried a small tray with tea and a folded napkin, intending to set it down for Mr. Camden when he woke since he had fallen asleep after taking his medications.
He had been resting more lately, though he insisted he was fine — "just tired," he always said, in that dignified, slightly amused tone that made her smile no matter what.
She set the tray down on a nearby table and looked toward his study. The door was ajar, a thin crack of light slipping through. He must have left it open after reading. She thought with a soft chuckle.
