POV: Claire Desmond A child’s shrill, unfiltered laughter bounced off the high-molded ceilings, splintering the heavy, stagnant silence that usually governed the Desmond estate. Sean, Nora’s four-year-old, darted across the hand-tufted rug, chasing a bright plastic ball that had taken a wild, erratic bounce. His small feet, clad in dinosaur-print socks, made a rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the dark oak parquet. I leaned back into the velvet sofa, sipping my Earl Grey as the steam curled before my eyes. The scent of bergamot filled my lungs, slowly unraveling the tension in my neck—a knot that had been wound tight as a piano wire since we crossed the threshold this afternoon. The drawing room, which usually felt like the inside of a walk-in freezer, felt strangely warm tonight. It wasn't just the heating; the atmosphere itself had finally begun to thaw. "Grandma
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