The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked past eleven, its pendulum swinging slow and steady.

You were curled on the leather couch in the study, wrapped in a blanket too big for you, clutching a stuffed bat with one button eye missing.

The fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows across the walls lined with books you couldn't read yet.

From the hallway, footsteps. Heavy. Measured.

He always walked like that — like he was carrying the world on his shoulders and didn't want to wake you.