The sharp ring of Henry's phone sliced through the quiet air inside the grand dining hall, where the clinking of silverware had just come to a halt. He was seated in his wheelchair near the large oak dining table, a half-eaten breakfast untouched before him. Sunlight streamed in from the tall windows, bathing the room in a golden warmth that contrasted the coldness in his heart. The moment he saw Claire's name flash on the screen, his hand hesitated mid-air. His jaw tightened. He didn't want to hear her voice—didn't want to be reminded of her betrayal, of the pain she had caused. And yet, something deep inside him stirred.
With a reluctant sigh, he answered the call but didn't raise the phone to his ear. Instead, he tapped the speaker icon, letting her voice fill the room like a ghost returning to haunt the living.
"Henry," came Claire's voice, cautious but laced with unmistakable relief. "You picked up. Thank you."
