She sat on the floor across from him. Not touching. Not speaking. Just existing in the same ruined space. After an hour, he said, “That harpsichord belonged to my mother. She played it the night she drove her car into the river. I was seventeen.”
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Elara Vance believed in facts. Dust motes had no sentiment. Ledgers had no secrets. She had built a quiet career out of other people’s abandoned grandeur, moving from one dying estate to the next, digitizing the past so the present could safely bulldoze it. She was thirty-two, single by choice, and allergic to the word “fate.” She sat on the floor across from him
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