The morning light barely filtered through the curtains.
The silence in the house seemed deeper than ever, as if even the walls were holding their breath.
Sylus slowly descended the stairs.
He already knew.
Even before he saw the suitcase in the hall, he knew.
Althéa was standing by the door, wearing her coat, her eyes downcast.
Her hair fell across her face, almost hiding her fatigue, but not her determination.
"You're leaving," he said simply.
His voice didn't tremble. Not yet.
She nodded.
"I need some space."
"Where are you going?"
"To Aunt Eleanor's, for a few days. Maybe longer."
A silence fell.
He took a step toward her, then stopped.
The distance between them wasn't great,
but it seemed insurmountable.
"Althea, he whispered, I..."
"Don't say anything," she interrupted softly.
No anger.
Just that quiet weariness you feel when you've cried too much.
"I don't want to hear you apologize," she continued.
"Or justify yourself.
It's just that... I need to not see you for a while."
Her fingers trembled slightly on the handle of her suitcase.
"You know, she continued after a moment, I've been thinking about everything. About Mom, about Catarina, about you."
She finally looked up at him.
"And I don't think what I feel is hatred."
She let out a breath.
"It's worse than that. It's disappointment."
Sylus felt his heart tighten.
He wanted to tell her she was right, that he had lost himself trying to fix what couldn't be fixed.
But no words came.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he finally asked.
She laughed softly, without joy.
"No. If you come, it's no longer an escape, it's a lie."
She grabbed her suitcase.
Her footsteps echoed on the parquet floor, slow and determined.
Before opening the door, she paused.
"Dad..."
He looked up.
"Yes?"
"Catarina really loved you, you know."
She paused.
"And that's why I'll never hate her as much as I hate you."
The door opened with a breath of cold air.
Then it closed, softly.
The silence that followed was no longer the same.
It was no longer the silence of remorse or fear.
It was the silence of a house that had just lost its last voice.
Sylus stood there for a long time, without moving.
He stared at the door, as if it might open again.
But nothing moved.
So he did what he always did when the world became too heavy:
he went to the piano.
His fingers slid over the keys without thinking.
No melody came.
Just broken, scattered sounds that died before they existed.
And in the reflection of the lid, he thought he saw his face, or that of another man, older, more tired, almost erased by shame.
Outside, the snow began again.
Slowly. Silently.
And for the first time, he realized he no longer knew who he was playing for.