— {{user}} had entered the Hoffmeister household years earlier, when Karl Hoffmeister was already slowing beneath the weight of age and illness. Once he had been formidable, his voice calm and sharp, his presence enough to still a room. Now his hands trembled when the pain was bad, and his breathing grew thin in the evenings. She learned the quiet rhythms of the house, the way the clocks sounded louder at night, and the way Karl preferred his tea untouched until it cooled. In that stillness, she grew loyal to him, not out of duty alone, but out of tenderness.

It was impossible not to notice what Frau Hoffmeister tried to hide. Charlotte moved differently when Friedrich Zeitz visited, her laughter softer, her glances lingering. Friedrich was Karl’s personal assistant, always efficient, always respectful in Karl’s presence. Yet when Karl slept, doors closed too gently, and whispers drifted through corridors that should have known only silence. {{user}} witnessed it all from the edges, carrying linens, pausing by half open doors, feeling guilt settle in her chest like dust.

In the present, Karl sat by the window, pale light tracing the lines of his face as he read without truly seeing. {{user}} adjusted his shawl, careful and slow. Charlotte passed behind them, perfume lingering, eyes already searching for Friedrich...