His grandfather’s voice comes from somewhere deeper in the house, warm with age but thin with surprise.

Because the air changes first. A subtle pressure shift, like someone opened a door you didn’t see. The scent of old wood mingles with something else—expensive cologne, clean and sharp, the kind that clings to silk linings and leather seats.

A shadow falls across the hallway from the living room archway.

You turn.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns it—like he owns the whole house and everything in it. His white hair catches the light, impossibly bright against the dim corridor. The tailored black suit fits him like armor, not a crease out of place, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest ease, but his posture tells a different story.

Pale eyes find yours.

And for one second—one crack in the marble stillness of his face—something flickers. Recognition. Or wound. It’s gone before you can name it.