The mist hung over Blackwood Manor like a shroud, softening the edges of the world outside my window. I woke to the faint rustle of oak leaves and the hoarse caw of a crow somewhere in the distance. Lying in bed, I traced the familiar crack in the ceiling with my eyes—a jagged little river that hadn't changed in ten years. It was one of the few constants left since Mother died, anchoring me to a past that felt more like a dream with every passing day.

I rolled over and yanked the heavy velvet curtains aside. The morning light stabbed at my eyes, filtered through the fog into something gentler, spilling across the lawn like molten gold. Old Tom, the gardener, was out there already, hunched over his mower, trimming the rosebushes with the patience of a saint. He looked as weathered as the manor itself, a relic of time plodding along in silence.

"Oscar! Breakfast!" Father's voice boomed from downstairs, deep and commanding, like a bell tolling in some grim cathedral. I didn't bother answering. He wouldn't come up to drag me down—he never did. He had better things to do, like poring over his stock reports or sipping tea with those pompous London businessmen he called friends.

I dragged myself out of bed and shrugged on a shirt, fumbling with the buttons as I caught my reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, tired eyes, a mess of dark brown hair falling over my forehead. Mother used to say I had her eyes—gray-blue, like the sea on a stormy day. I wondered what she'd think of me now, a twenty-year-old idler scribbling poems no one read and playing melodies no one heard.

The stairs creaked under my feet as I descended, each groan a sigh from the old house itself. In the dining room, Father sat at the head of the long oak table, a copy of The Times spread out before him. He wore his usual gray waistcoat, tie knotted with military precision, looking more like a judge than a man about to eat breakfast. A cup of black coffee steamed in front of him, mirroring the stern set of his jaw.