He stared. "This design…"
My father's fingers traced the inked lines with reverence, slow and careful, as if the parchment itself might shatter under too much pressure. His brow furrowed—not in doubt, but in awe. His thumb lingered at one junction, then followed the curve outward, eyes narrowing as his mind raced several steps ahead of his mouth.
"It's… open," he murmured. "Exposed. Yet balanced."
He leaned closer, breath catching slightly. "The airflow alone—Seraphine, this defies traditional architecture."
I lifted my cup and took a calm sip of coffee, letting the steam brush my face like I wasn't internally screaming.
"I had a dream."
He froze.
Slowly—slowly—he turned his head to look at me, expression flat in that very specific way that meant he had officially given up questioning my sanity.
"…Of course you did."
I smiled sweetly. Innocently. The smile of a woman absolutely lying through her teeth with confidence.
