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 The clocks still ticked, the staff still moved, the children still breathed… but life, real life, had withdrawn quietly, leaving behind something polished and hollow.

Elena lay motionless on the carpet.

Santi, still leaning on his shoulder, gradually stopped laughing, as if he had sensed the change in the room’s temperature. The joy vanished abruptly.

Roberto did not advance.

He didn’t breathe.

He just stared at that scar peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeve of his blue uniform.

I had seen her before.

Not one like it.

The same.

A curved, thin, pale line, just below her elbow. The mark Alma, his wife, got at sixteen when she broke a boarding school window trying to escape to see her sick mother. No one knew that story except him… and Alma herself.

Elena slowly got up, carefully put the children down, and stood up.

He didn’t say “sir”.

He did not apologize for the mess.