The Nest, midmorning.
The snow has not stopped for three days.
The fire had burned itself to embers. The chill that seeped through the old townhouse felt older than winter — the kind that settled not on the skin, but in the bones.
Serena Maxwell sat near the window, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, staring at the paper lying unopened on the table before her.
It had arrived an hour ago — a single envelope, unmarked but unmistakable.
The handwriting on the front — clean, deliberate, impossibly elegant — was branded into her memory.
Christopher's hand.
Emily had gone quiet when she saw Serena's face, and after a long silence, simply said, "Do you want me to burn it?"
Serena had shaken her head.
Now, she was alone.
The fire cracked softly. The snow outside pressed against the window like a hush.
She reached for the letter, then stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered above it, trembling faintly.
