The house around us was still grand and empty, but it no longer felt like a prison.

***

The next morning, the sun broke through the heavy gray clouds that had hung over the estate for days.

The light that streamed through the tall windows of the dining room was bright and clean.

Rosa had prepared breakfast, the smell of fresh coffee and warm bread filling the air.

For the first time in over a year, the long dining table was not set for a formal, silent meal.

We sat close together at one end of the table—my father, Martina, and myself.

Rosa sat with us, at my father’s insistence, though she had resisted at first.

“This is your home, Rosa,” my father had told her. “You sit with us.”

The breakfast was quiet, but it was a comfortable, peaceful quiet.

There were no whispers in the corners, no forced smiles, and no hidden agendas.

My father looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes showing how little sleep he had gotten.

But there was a clarity in his eyes that had been missing for a very long time.