The manor was silent.
Not peaceful, just still, as if the air itself had stopped trying to move. Even the portraits had gone dull, their eyes lifeless, the colours drained away. Curtains hung untouched. Somewhere down the hall, a clock had stopped before dawn, and no one had bothered to wind it again.
Daphne stood by the window, her fingertips pressed to the cold glass. Outside, fog crawled across the garden, and the willow swayed gently at the edge of the property. Its branches brushed the ground in uneven rhythm, like something breathing in its sleep.
The house felt wrong.
Not empty, hollow.
Like it knew.
She hadn't spoken since yesterday. Every word she might have said felt heavy, useless, impossible to form.
Behind her, the floor creaked. Porcelain touched porcelain.
"They'll send the box in the morning," Oliver said quietly. His voice was steady in that way that wasn't strength, it was survival.
"Do you want to choose the place?"
Daphne didn't turn. Her reflection in the glass looked pale and blurred, like she was already fading from her own body.
"By the willow," she said.
Nothing more.
He hesitated, and she could hear it, the sound of a breath caught, the soft movement of a hand that didn't know what to do. Then the door clicked shut again, and she was alone with the silence.
The air in the room felt heavy, thick. The walls seemed to listen.
She glanced down at her hand. The sapphire ring caught what little light the sky offered, a cold gleam against her skin. She turned it slowly with her thumb, the gesture small but deliberate.
Then she slid it off.
It left a pale mark on her finger.
She set it on the windowsill and stepped back, watching the blue stone sit there, untouched, until her vision blurred.
---
Morning came, grey and colourless.
The clouds pressed low against the glass, blurring the world outside into nothing but shapes and shadow. Daphne dressed slowly, without thought. No spells, no charmwork, just the sound of buttons closing, fabric brushing against her skin, the weight of movement itself.
Downstairs, Oliver waited by the door. His coat was dark, his eyes darker. He didn't speak, he just nodded when she reached him.
They crossed the garden together. The grass was slick under her shoes, the air wet and cold. The willow stood where it always had, long branches bending toward the ground as if in mourning. Beneath it, the ground looked soft enough to take what they were about to give.
Oliver carried the box close to his chest. His hands were steady, but she saw his jaw tighten once. The sound of the wind through the branches was low and constant, like a breath that never fully exhaled.
He crouched and placed the box on the earth. The sound it made, soft, final, echoed louder than any spell.
For a long time, neither spoke. Daphne's throat felt tight, her pulse quick and shallow. She wanted to speak, to say something small and useless, but no words came.
Oliver broke the silence first. His voice was rough, uneven.
"Rest in peace," he said quietly. "You were loved. You still are. Your parents love you very much."
Something inside her cracked at that.
A single tear slipped free before she could stop it.
She turned away, the sound of her breath catching in her chest.
The willow whispered above them, branches sweeping across the air in slow, rhythmic movement. The smell of wet soil clung to her hands. Somewhere far away, a bird called once, then went quiet again.
She walked back to the house without looking behind her. Her steps were light, almost soundless. The world felt like glass, one wrong movement and it would break.
What she didn't see was Oliver still on his knees.
His fingers pressed into the soil, curling until the mud filled the spaces between them. His shoulders trembled, once, twice. Then he bowed his head, forehead against the dirt, a sound escaping him that didn't quite reach a sob.
The willow bent lower with the wind, its branches brushing the ground like hands that didn't know how to comfort. But there was no comfort to give.
He stayed there long after she was gone.
---
By dusk, the manor had gone dim again.
The rain had started, light but constant, the sound of it tapping against the glass like a heartbeat that refused to stop. The air was colder now, the rooms darker. The silence wasn't peace, it was grief, heavy and alive.
Daphne moved through the corridor barefoot, her nightdress brushing the marble floor. The house seemed endless, every step echoing back at her. She reached the guest corridor and stopped. One door stood ajar, and she pushed it open.
The room smelled untouched, cold air, old linen, stillness.
She sank to the floor, pulling her knees close to her chest. The tiles were freezing, but she barely felt it. Her breathing came shallow and uneven, her eyes fixed on the blank wall ahead.
She didn't cry. Not at first. Just sat there, still and silent.
Then footsteps.
"Daph," Oliver said softly. "Come to bed. Please."
No answer.
He hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to come closer.
"You can't stay here," he said, quieter now. "It's freezing."
She turned her head slightly, eyes hollow. "Can you bring him back?"
He froze.
"If I could," he said, the words breaking mid-breath, "I would have already."
Her gaze flickered once. "Then go," she whispered. "Before I start to hate you for trying."
He stood there for a long time, unmoving. Then, finally, he nodded and walked away. The door closed softly behind him.
The sound felt like the end of something.
She stayed where she was. And when the first tear finally came, she didn't wipe it away.
Outside, the rain fell harder. The manor groaned under the wind, as if it too could feel the loss.