The house had finally learned how to be quiet again.
Not the old kind of quiet that used to swallow Eve whole, the kind Ryan had curated for years, polished and sterile and cold. This new quiet had different weight. It held the residue of laughter from the kitchen, the faint scent of tea Camila had brewed before she left, the soft rhythm of Eve’s breathing behind a closed bedroom door.
Eve was asleep.
Ryan could tell because the whole wing felt different when she was awake, like the air had opinions. When she slept, the house settled. The silence stopped sounding like accusation and started sounding like a pause.
Ryan stood in the corridor outside their room, phone in his hand, staring at nothing.
He didn’t trust pauses anymore.
Pauses were where people planned.
The cooking contest
