It was breathtaking—almost painfully so—with marble floors polished to perfection, chandeliers suspended like frozen constellations, and hallways so vast they absorbed every sound. It was a home built with immense wealth, but almost no warmth.
Every morning in the enormous house began the same way: in silence. Leonard sat at one end of the long walnut dining table, dressed in an immaculate dark suit even before dawn, scrolling through his tablet with a face that rarely betrayed emotion.
His features were sharp, composed, and his gaze carried a quiet intensity that made most people uncomfortable when met directly.
At the opposite end sat his daughter, Clara, a small figure nearly lost in the emptiness around her. She stirred her tea slowly, glancing toward her father every few seconds—not to speak, but hoping he might look up first. He rarely did.
That morning was no exception. Leonard lifted his eyes once, caught her timid gaze, gave a brief nod, and returned to his screen. That was his way of showing care. Clara accepted it because it was all she had ever known.