The study was a room built from time.Tucked at the end of the hallway, just off the living room, it had once been Sophia’s father’s office, then a quiet retreat for both parents, and now a sanctuary of old books, worn leather, and memories pressed between pages. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, crammed with novels, photo albums, and yellowed journals from decades past. A heavy oak desk stood in the center, its surface scarred with coffee rings and ink stains — the kind earned through years of late-night letters and early-morning plans.A brass lamp cast a warm, amber glow over the room, softening the edges of the world outside. The windows were open just a crack, letting in the faint hum of crickets and the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Two armchairs — deep brown, cracked in places, softened by time — faced the desk. One for Robert. One for Margaret.Daniel sat in the third — the guest chair, slightly lower, slightly smaller — hands folded in his lap, spine strai
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