Walter lay unconscious on his bed, pale, and motionless, with a limp right hand, fresh bandages wrapped around it while resting at his side. The room that had once been immaculate was now mute by witness to the eruption from hours earlier, where the glass had been cleared away but keeping faint traces of blood near the dresser—the phantom of the pain he had unleashed.
The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows and cast soft golden light across the room. The curtains billowed dear with the comfort in silence alive, as if the mansion itself were holding its breath.
