For two long years, the velvet curtains had stayed closed, refusing sunlight entry, as if the house itself had chosen mourning over life. To the outside world, Alexander was untouchable—a titan of industry, a man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.
But inside those walls, he was nothing more than a broken husband, clinging to the memory of a woman frozen in time: Victoria.
“She’s alive, sir. I saw her.”
The trembling voice shattered the quiet like glass breaking.
Alexander, standing near the fireplace with a glass of whiskey in hand, slowly turned. His eyes were dull, irritated at being dragged from his grief.
In the doorway stood a boy—no older than ten. His clothes were torn and stained, his small frame tense under the watchful eyes of security guards. He clutched a worn cap, but his gaze—bright, fearful, and unwavering—cut through the room.
“What did you say?” Alexander asked, his voice rough and low.
The boy swallowed and pointed toward the portrait above the mantel.
“The woman in that picture. I saw her yesterday. Near the old train yard… where nobody goes. She asked me for help. She said her name was Victoria.”
A humorless laugh escaped Alexander.