The night Madame Trisha vanished, the heavy silence of the estate felt almost deliberate.
Matt was the only soul awake to witness it.
Sleep had eluded him entirely, his thoughts churning in an unending loop, his heart hammering with a restless, nameless anxiety.
Drawn by a sudden impulse, he had paced to the tall, arched window of his quarters, peering out across the moon-washed expanse of the manicured gardens.
That was when he caught sight of her.
Her movement was slow and delicate, her fragile frame stooped under the weight of centuries. A modest leather satchel was slung over her narrow shoulder. With quiet, deliberate steps, she crossed the courtyard, moving like a phantom past the unsuspecting sentries, heading straight toward the wrought-iron side gate that gave way to the dense, dark woods beyond.
