His voice echoed. He craned his neck back, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, taking in the ceiling like it was the Sistine Chapel.

Y/N’s father let out a practiced chuckle, the kind reserved for important clients. Y/N’s mother materialized beside him, heels clicking like a metronome.

The boy looked up. Past the banister. Past the cold distance of polished wood and marble. Past every invisible wall Y/N had built around themselves.