Silence, he had learned, could hide anything—pain, lies, decay. It had settled into his mansion after his wife’s death like a permanent guest, spreading from room to room until even the walls seemed to whisper less. The clocks still ticked, the staff still moved, the children still breathed… but life, real life, had withdrawn quietly, leaving behind something polished and hollow.

It was not justified.

She just stood there in front of him, pale, with her eyes wide open, as if she knew it was all over.

“Who are you?” Roberto finally asked.

His voice came out hoarse.

More dangerous than a scream.

Elena swallowed.

—They…

But he didn’t get a chance to answer.

Behind Roberto there was a sharp knock.

Hurried heels.

And then Doña Gertrudis’s high-pitched voice cut through the hallway like a knife wound.

—Sir! Thank God he’s back! I knew something was wrong!

The housekeeper appeared in the room with a perfectly rehearsed expression of horror.

He looked at the disaster.

He looked at Elena.