Morning sunlight spilled across the polished hardwood floors of the River House, casting long, uninterrupted stretches of pale gold. For the first time in six years, the walls remained completely still. There were no black veins pulsing beneath the plaster. No sudden structural shifts. No ancient whispers bleeding through the floorboards. The oppressive, heavy atmosphere of the Archive had simply vanished. The Doom was gone.
Galathea Brooks woke slowly. She did not bolt upright. She did not instinctively scan the shadows for anomalies. She lay perfectly still beneath the thick duvet, the scent of cedar and river water drifting through the partially open window.
She listened.
'Nothing,' she noted in her head.
