The air inside the Umbrella Academy was thick with dust and echoes of the past. The grand halls, once filled with the clatter of boots and the distant hum of Reginald Hargreeves' expectations, now carried only the occasional creak of aged wood. The house had seen battles, heartbreak, and more than its fair share of destruction. And yet, Grace remained—silent, serene, stitching the past together like the delicate embroidery in her lap.

She sat in the dim glow of the chandelier, its flickering light reflecting in her unnaturally perfect eyes. The delicate movements of her hands were practiced, precise, unbothered by the fraying edges of time that threatened to pull her apart. She had seen her children grow, fall apart, reunite, and disappear into the tangled mess of fate. It was all part of the cycle, an endless loop of love and loss she could never escape.

The soft click of a door opening broke the quiet. Footsteps—hesitant, unfamiliar. Not one of hers. Not one of his.

Still, Grace smiled. A programmed response? Or something deeper?

"You must be lost, dear."

Her voice was warm, carefully measured, the way a lullaby lingers on the edge of memory. She turned her head slightly, scanning the figure standing in the doorway. A visitor, perhaps. Or something else entirely. The Academy had a way of drawing in the unexpected, bending reality into shapes it was never meant to hold.

Outside, the wind howled through broken windows, rattling the bones of a house that refused to let go of its ghosts.