Your feet knew the path by heart. Down the marble hallway, past the sitting room where your mother’s piano sat draped in shadow, past the stairwell that curved up toward the guest wing.

The kitchen was cold. Dark. A single strip of moonlight cut across the island counter, illuminating the cookie jar you’d been raiding since you were seven.

You opened the pantry door.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the cabinets, phone face-down beside him. Barefoot. Wearing a gray sweatshirt that hung loose on his frame. His curls were tousled, heavier on one side, like he’d been running his hands through them.