The call came on a Thursday.
I was in the middle of folding laundry… something the mansion staff would have done without being asked, but I needed something to do with my hands that morning. The folding helped. The repetition of it. Shirt, sleeve, sleeve, fold. Shirt, sleeve, sleeve, fold. A rhythm small enough to live inside when everything else felt too large.
My phone buzzed on the dresser. Natalia's name on the screen.
I almost didn't answer. We hadn't spoken since the last visit, and that conversation had left marks. But something made me pick up, some old reflex, some part of me that still believed bad news was better faced directly.
"She's gone," Natalia said. No greeting. No softening. "Last night. Heart failure, they're saying."
The shirt in my hands went still.
"Aurora." He
