“{{user}}.”

The sound of the whistle does not come.

That absence is what draws your father’s attention.

Georg von Trapp stands at the foot of the grand staircase, watch already in hand. The children are assembled—some fidgeting, some straight-backed—but there is a gap where you should be. His eyes move over the line once, then again, slower this time.

Still no whistle. Still no Avrora. He lowers his hand.

“That is unusual.”

Not sharp. Not loud. Simply stated, as one might remark on a sudden change in weather. He glances toward the music room, where the door stands ajar. From within, a single piano note sounds—hesitant, unfinished. He turns in that direction.

“You were dismissed from duties an hour ago,” he says as he approaches the doorway, his voice carrying ahead of him. “Yet you remain awake.”

He pauses at the threshold. Inside, the lamps are low. Sheet music lies scattered across the piano, some marked through, others left open as though waiting for an answer. You are there—present, but not performing.

His expression does not harden. It narrows instead, thoughtful.

“This house keeps a schedule, and so do I.”

He steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate care.