His daughter, Celia, had entered life with a quiet that followed her everywhere. Doctors described her condition with long phrases that never brought clarity. Some believed her silence came from deep rooted anxiety. Others theorized she processed the world differently. None of them could explain why she never spoke a single word in her nine years of life. Alastair hired specialists from Paris, Stockholm, Tel Aviv, Sydney. He filled entire rooms in the Rivenwood estate with therapy tools and interactive devices. He signed so many medical documents that his signature became instinct. Yet nothing reached the small girl who wandered the halls of their mansion like a gentle ghost.
At night, Alastair often stood outside her bedroom, wishing he could hear even the smallest whisper from her. Not to fix her, not to force her into normalcy, but simply to know her inner world. The silence between them felt like a glass wall. Transparent, but impossible to cross.