Golden sunlight flooded the Hawthorne estate, streaming through towering glass windows and spilling across lawns trimmed with obsessive care. Autumn had settled in gently, brushing the trees with shades of amber and honey. The air was cool and promising, the kind that made the day feel full of possibility. Birds darted freely between branches, unaware of anything amiss.
The house felt alive.
All except one room.
At the end of the east corridor, behind a white door carved with delicate vines, lay the bedroom of six-year-old Elara Hawthorne. While the rest of the mansion hummed with quiet elegance, her room felt unnervingly still. The silence there wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, tense, like a breath held too long.
Elara lay unmoving on an oversized white bed, her small frame nearly lost in the expensive sheets. Her skin looked pale beneath the softened light. Dark curls clung damply to her forehead. Her breaths were shallow and irregular, each one seeming like an effort her body struggled to make.
She was far too young for this.