Part Twenty Nine – Morning at the Hanns Mansion
The first light of dawn crept over the Hanns estate, pale and reluctant, casting long bars of gray through the tall windows. Inside, Heller moved with the measured rhythm of habit. The old butler carried his cloth and feather duster as if they were ceremonial instruments, gliding from room to room with quiet reverence.
He polished the banisters, adjusted the drapes, straightened chairs that had never been moved. The mansion demanded order, even if its heart was rotting from within.
When he reached the west hall, his step faltered. On the polished oak floor lay the Wichester revolver —. The weapon sat awkwardly in the light, as though ashamed of what it had failed to do.
He withdrew the bullets, wiped the steel with his cloth until it gleamed, then slid the revolver back into its proper case as though returning a sacred relic. Another attempt thwarted. Another night survived.
But how many more? Heller's gaze lingered on the revolver a beat longer before he turned away, the silence of the mansion pressing in on his shoulders.