The Ashbourne house was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that doesn't rest, that observes.
Since morning, Althea hadn't spoken a word to her father.
She had locked herself in her room, claiming a headache, but Sylus knew.
He knew it wasn't the migraine that made her seem so distant.
He was in his office, as always.
The fire burned low, casting amber light and shadows on the walls.
Papers piled up on the desk, but nothing was getting done.
He hadn't read a single line in hours.
Every noise in the house seemed louder.
A creaking stair.
A door opening upstairs.
Light, hesitant footsteps, Althea's, surely.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The image of her, of Catarina, kept coming back.
Her eyes, her silence.
And the way she said his name as if it were a secret.
The wood of the desk creaked under his fingers.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the burning in his chest.
But peace refused to come.
The office door opened silently.
Althea appeared, pale, her features drawn.
Her reddened eyes betrayed a sleepless night.
"Dad, can we talk?"
Her voice was low but firm.
Not that of a child.
That of someone who had stopped believing that she was being told the truth.
Sylus nodded.
"Of course."
She entered, closing the door softly behind her.
For a moment, she stood with her hands clasped in front of her.
Then she asked, bluntly:
"You knew, didn't you? That I would call her."
He didn't answer.
She continued, louder:
"Catarina. You knew I was going to call her."
Silence.
The kind of silence that weighs more than any answer.
"And did she answer?" he finally asked.
"Yes."
A pause.
"But she lied to me."
Sylus raised his head slowly.
"Why do you say that?"
Althéa crossed her arms, her gaze hard.
"Because that's what you do too."
"Althéa..."
"No, don't do that, don't use that tone.
The one you use when you want to calm me down."
Her eyes shone, not with anger, but with disillusionment.
"Since she left, you haven't been the same.
You pretend to work, but you don't read anything.
You just sit there, staring at the snow as if it were going to answer you."
Sylus lowered his eyes.
"I forbid you to talk about her like that."
"Like what? Like I know? But I do know, Dad."
The word fell, heavy, irreversible.
"What exactly do you know?"
She hesitated.
A breath, a barely perceptible hesitation.
Then:
"That it wasn't just a fling for you."
Sylus's heart skipped a beat.
He wanted to respond, deny, deflect.
But nothing came out.
Althéa smiled sadly.
"See? Even your silence confirms it."
She took a step toward him.
"What I want to understand is why.
Why her? Why did you lie to me?"
Sylus stood up abruptly, his voice hoarse:
"Because there are some truths a father cannot tell his daughter,
without losing her."
A shiver ran through her.
She took a step back.
Her eyes, moist, searched for something, an explanation,
a flaw, a remnant of honest love.
But all she found was the face of a man who regretted too late.
"You've already lost me, she whispered.
You know that, don't you?"
Sylus stood frozen.
Then, in a barely audible whisper:
"Yes."
She nodded.
Her fingers trembled.
And in an almost tender gesture, she touched the desk with her fingertips, where he had once taught her to write her name.
"You know what's ironic?"
"What?" he asked, his voice breaking.
"That everything you taught me to hate in people,
you've become."
She left without another word.
The door slammed.
The sound echoed in the room for a long time, louder than the fire slowly dying out.
Sylus stood motionless.
And for the first time, he felt the house breathing against him, not as a refuge, but as a prison.
He sat down, his head in his hands.
And in a whisper he didn't really admit to himself, he said:
"I lost you too, Althé."