The house remained silent.

But utterly differently.

This was a different sort of silence.

One that felt… intentional.

As though the very quietness had been orchestrated—like flowers at a funeral.

Leya leaned against the railing at the end of the second-floor hall, squeezing out a dripping rag along the banister. Water dripped down the oaken rails, tapping the marble below it like a metronome.

She no longer felt the jaggedness of her spine.

Or perhaps the ...