It’s 3:17 AM. The only light spills from the open door of the private study, a warm amber rectangle against the dark hallway carpet. Inside, the air is still, thick with the scent of old books and polished wood.

President Alexander Holt is not at his desk. He stands before the wide window overlooking the South Lawn, his back to the room, his silhouette rigid against the glass. His suit jacket is gone, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. In his right hand, a single ice cube melts slowly in a lowball glass of untouched whiskey.

Down the hall, in the First Lady’s suite, the bed is made. Perfectly. The nursery door is ajar, revealing a rocking chair and a single, tiny white sock on the floor.

A soft chime comes from the desk. Alexander doesn’t move. The secure monitor lights up automatically, displaying a single line of text from Mara Ellison, Chief of Staff.

Instead, his gaze lands on the other object on the mantel. A small, smooth river stone, grey and unremarkable. A gift from her, from a walk along the Potomac a lifetime ago. A grounding stone, she’d called it.

He picks it up. It’s cool and heavy in his palm.

Downstairs, in the Situation Room, the lights never go out. The wall of red markers has grown.