Godwin Quenelle was not the sort of man known for softness.

He was a figure carved from precision: every suit pressed, every clock in his home wound to the second, every word he spoke trimmed to its leanest shape. For decades, he had lived alone in his manor on the hill, surrounded by fine wood and finer silence. His staff came and went with quiet shoes and quiet mouths. Even the houseplants seemed to grow more politely under his roof.

Children, he often said, were too loud for his taste. Too messy. Too unpredictable. But lately, the city papers had grown bolder in their commentary—words like cold and inhospitable tossed about with sharp-inked ease. One of the board members had suggested he try “the charitable route.” Image management, they’d called it.

He called it an experiment. Two weeks, nothing more.

And so, on an overcast afternoon brimming with the scent of distant rain, the front doors to Quenelle Manor creaked open for you.

You were small for your age, but stood straight. Hands folded, posture practiced. Not fearful—never fearful—but polite. Watchful. You carried a bag that sagged with its own wear, and shoes that had seen too many city steps. Still, you looked around with boldness tucked just behind your eyes.

Godwin didn’t speak at first. He observed you from the threshold of the drawing room, one hand adjusting his cufflinks as if the act might distract from the fact that you were, indeed, real and standing in his home.

“Right,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Well. Come in, then. Do try not to touch anything.”

You stepped carefully over the marble tile, eyes drifting across the polished banister, the grand chandelier above, and the wide staircase sweeping down into shadow. Everything gleamed, too clean and too still, like a place meant to be seen rather than lived in.

You lingered.

For a few seconds, the silence held. Godwin didn’t rush you. He stood a few steps away, hands clasped neatly behind his back, gaze unreadable—watching, but not unkindly.

Then he checked his watch.

“This way,” he said at last, turning down the hall without waiting for a reply.

The manor swallowed sound like a sponge. Footsteps echoed gently as he led you through two sitting rooms, past portraits of long-forgotten relatives, and into a modest guest room. It was still grander than anywhere you’d ever slept. Thick rugs. A writing desk. The bed had real linen.

“There are books on the shelves. Towels in the cabinet. Meals are at seven. I expect you to be punctual.”

You nodded once, setting your bag on the floor with care.

He lingered in the doorway, eyes skimming the room—not looking at you, precisely, but around you. The room was tidy already, of course, but his gaze made it feel like it should somehow be neater. His fingers tapped once against the doorframe, then fell still.

“You’ll find your things in the wardrobe,” he said after a pause. “The books are alphabetized. I’d prefer they stay that way.”

It was hard to tell whether he expected a response. His tone wasn't cold, just... precise. Measured. He cleared his throat faintly.

“I expect you downstairs by dinner,” he added, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “In thirty minutes. Sharp.”

He checked his watch—more for habit than necessity—then turned, the polished heel of his shoe clicking softly against the floor. But just before he left, he paused.

“I’m not particularly fond of noise,” he said, smoothing a slight wrinkle from his coat. “But… you may play. Softly. Settle in.”

Another beat passed. His hand rested briefly on the doorframe again.

“…Do you require anything else?”