The night had settled over the estate like a shroud, heavy and unmoving, as if the darkness itself were listening. A faint wind rattled the branches outside the windows, but inside the great hall, silence thickened until it felt almost sacred. Elena stood near the tall window, her silhouette etched sharply against the faint silver glow. She wasn't crying—not anymore. Tears had lost their power hours ago. What remained now was a stillness that frightened Adrian far more than her grief.
He stood at the threshold, watching her with the helplessness of a man who'd finally realized the limits of his own strength.
"Elena," he said quietly.
She didn't turn. "You don't have to say anything, Adrian. I already know."
He stepped forward anyway. "Knowing is not the same as hearing it from me."
