The mansion grew very quiet at night, the kind of deep controlled silence that belonged to old wealth and long habit. Thick carpets absorbed every footstep before it could echo through the corridors, chandeliers burned with a steady restrained glow, and the air held the faint lingering scent of polished wood and her father's pipe tobacco. The house had always felt permanent and secure, a place where disorder was corrected before it had time to spread.
Christy kissed her father goodnight in the familiar way she always had, leaning down to press her lips gently against his forehead. He returned the gesture with a quiet smile meant to reassure her, but his eyes lingered on her longer than usual as she walked down the long hallway toward her room. He sensed the change in her even if he could not name it, the tension beneath the perfect hair and practiced composure of the daughter he trusted.
