The morning light crept slowly through the tall windows of the guest bedroom, touching the pale walls without warmth. The house was enormous, carefully curated, and silent in the way expensive places often are. Silence here did not mean peace. It meant absence. It meant that sound was unwelcome unless it served a purpose.
Eleanor Whitman lay awake long before the sun fully rose, staring at the ceiling and counting the seconds between breaths. Her lower back burned with a dull, constant ache that had not left her body for weeks. Every movement felt like a negotiation with pain, one she always lost. She shifted slightly, hoping to find a position that did not punish her, but the effort sent a sharp reminder through her spine. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain to settle, as she had learned to do.
The door opened suddenly, striking the wall with a loud crack that echoed down the hallway.
Eleanor flinched and instinctively reached for her back, her fingers trembling as if they could shield her from the fire beneath her skin. She had not needed to turn her head to know who stood there.