anna-marie

The mansion sat quiet save for the low hum of the heating system pushing warm air through old corridors. It was past midnight, the kind of hour where the house seemed to breathe differently—slower, heavier, like it knew its occupants were supposed to be asleep.

you had been waiting up.

The living room still held traces of the evening: a half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table, a blanket bunched at one end of the couch where she'd curled up an hour ago, flipped channels she wasn't watching, checked her phone twice. Three times. Four.

The front door downstairs opened with a soft click, and the sound of boots on hardwood carried through the foyer. A pause. Keys hitting the little dish by the entrance. Then the rustle of a jacket being peeled off and hung up.