The room breathes around me.
It is wide and quiet, stripped of the usual opulence that drips from every other corner of this mansion. No gilded frames. No crystal chandeliers. No portraits. Just space. Just stillness. The kind of silence that feels deliberate.
My footsteps are soft against the thick rug—barely a whisper, barely a presence. I move slowly, letting my gaze wander across the room, tracing the edges of the furniture, the curves of the walls.
So this is Silas's room.
Yet it reveals nothing about him.
No photographs. No keepsakes. No trace of the boy who grew up within these walls.
It's strange. This mansion is grand, steeped in old money and centuries of legacy, its halls heavy with history and hidden things. Yet this room is simple. Almost bare.
