The mansion's private bar holds its breath around me.
No one else. Just the bottles. Just the shadows. Just the weight of a day I never wanted—pressing down on my chest like stones stacked one by one.
The expensive liquors rest on their shelves like sleeping soldiers—untouched, waiting, gleaming beneath dim golden light that spills from fixtures shaped like flowers.
Whiskey from mountains I've never climbed. Bourbon from rivers I've never crossed. Cognac aged longer than I've been alive. Countries I'll never visit—trapped in glass and silence.
Their scent lingers in the air. Warm. Wooden. Familiar. The only perfume that's ever felt like home.
I lean back into the couch. Let it take my weight. The leather shifts softly beneath me—quiet, expensive, yielding.
The wine shimmers in my crystal glass. Dark red. Almost black. Like blood held up to candlelight in a room where no one prays.
