The alpha suite felt like a breathing thing — old wood warmed by the late-afternoon sun, the heavy curtains drawn aside so light could pool golden over the rugs. Voices from the inner halls softened as if the house itself swallowed sound to protect what happened inside. In Nathan’s room, toys were scattered in a casual kingdom: a battered wooden horse, a cluster of carved soldiers, the faint chalk circle where Nathan insisted his imaginary wolves met. Elaine sat on the edge of the bed, fingers threaded through the soft hair at the nape of her son’s neck. Nathan, small and earnest in a shirt that still smelled faintly of his afternoon milk, was perched on a stool, reliving the day in bright, staccato bursts.
“You did a good job today, love,” Elaine said, her voice low and proud. It wasn’t
