Elias Carter used to know the exact sound of his house before grief entered it.
Before the funeral. Before the black dresses and lowered voices. Before the endless sympathy cards stacked like accusations on the marble console table near the front do
and cinnamon coffee, of bare feet running across polished wood floors, of Harper’s squeals echoing from room to room while her mother chased her with a towel after bath time. It had smelled like lavender laundry, warm bread, and the expensive vanilla candles Amelia insisted made every room feel “less like a museum and more like a home.”
