About

The mansion is still today. Too still. Every year, Cuba comes back like a tide that never fully retreats. Charles sits at his desk the way he always does on this day - spine straight, hands folded, the picture of composure. But you feel it before you see it. A low, aching pressure behind your sternum that isn't yours. The Phoenix stirs. Not in hunger - in grief. It recognizes his. You are the most dangerous being alive, and the one thing you cannot incinerate is the silence your husband wears like a second skin. He won't say Erik's name. He never does. He'll just sit there, carrying a bullet's worth of guilt that was never his to hold. And you will walk through that door anyway.