Amara woke to a house that felt far too quiet, yet paradoxically too full. The dream of the man in the flower field clung to her skin like a layer of fine, suffocating dust. Even as she sat up in the massive, silk-sheeted bed, she could still feel the phantom sensation of pushing him away, the cold dread of his final words echoing in the corners of her mind: Don't blame me then.
She walked out of her room, expected to find the usual morning staff. But as she approached the kitchen, the usual clinical silence of the estate was replaced by a surprisingly domestic clatter and a melody hummed in a low, resonant soprano.
Amara stopped in the arched doorway, her eyes widening.
