The estate library did not welcome the living.
It tolerated them.
Dust rested upon the high shelves like ancient judgment. Tall ladders leaned against towering rows of leather-bound volumes whose spines bore languages long removed from daily speech. The air smelled faintly of cedar, smoke, and something older — a memory preserved in paper and ash.
Elara paused at the threshold.
"Hm."
Her breath echoed too loudly.
"Why does this room feel like it knows my secrets already?" she murmured.
From somewhere behind her, Luca's voice drifted softly:
"Because rooms like this were built to keep them."
She shot him a glance.
"Comforting."
He did not smile.
"Truth rarely is."
---
She ran her fingers along a row of diplomatic archives — treaties, correspondences, sealed accords between houses and nations. Her pulse quickened at the faint familiarity of embossed crests.
Romano.
Her hand froze.
The name pressed against her ribs like a forgotten heartbeat.
Romano.
