When the mansion fell into chaos, no one understood why the maid was running away through the estate.

The mansion in Savannah Georgia loomed like a monument to misplaced wealth, all white columns and iron balconies that caught the moonlight like polished bone. Night after night it sat in regal silence, a silence so deep that it felt like a presence of its own, a cold sentry guarding secrets that no one living there seemed willing to face. Antique lamps glowed in the corridors, struggling to chase away the chill that slithered along the baseboards. Their light flickered as if nervous.

In the servants wing, Janessa Bloom was polishing a set of silver trays when a sound cut through the stillness, a sound that felt like it pierced her ribs. It was the cry of a child. Not the startled squeak of a nightmare or the loud call of a tantrum. It was a raw wail, soaked in sorrow, echoing through the echoing hallways like a lament, as if the mansion itself were mourning through him.