After the surprise romantic dinner, the warmth of candlelight and shared silence still lingers in my mind. Every dish, every flower, every glance across the table had felt like a quiet confession.
How many surprises is this puppy still hiding from me?
The hallway stretches before us, endless and golden, bathed in the soft glow of crystal sconces that line the walls like quiet, watchful sentinels. Our footsteps echo in unison—a gentle rhythm against the polished marble, the sound of two people moving as one. His hand is warm in mine, our fingers loosely intertwined, a quiet anchor in this vast, unfamiliar house.
The Stoneheart mansion breathes around us. The air itself feels different here—heavier, richer, as though the house has absorbed centuries of lives within its walls and now exhales them slowly into the present.
The walls are lined with paintings, so many they blur together at first glance.
