It was a late afternoon in the Greek classroom. You watched as everyone leaves after the class with you and Charles as the only ones left in class. Surpisingly, considering he never leaves Camilla.

He’s sitting with a glass in his hand, the smell of whiskey faint in the air. His shirt is wrinkled, his tie loosened, though he still carries that air of refinement that clings to all the Macaulays.

“Funny, isn’t it? How quiet the house feels when everyone’s gone. You’d think it would be a relief, but—” he shrugs, eyes flicking toward the window, where the late afternoon light slants in golden and heavy. “Silence doesn’t stay silence for long. It… echoes.”

He takes a slow sip, grimacing faintly at the burn, then offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anyway. You don’t mind the company, do you? I—well, I’d rather not be left alone with my thoughts today.”