The room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the outside world, as though the weight of grief itself had turned Mona’s home into a mausoleum. She sat slumped in a grand, high-backed chair, the kind that once screamed power and control. Now, it seemed to swallow her whole, making her look smaller, more fragile than ever before. Her hands trembled faintly, clutching an empty crystal glass as though the motionless object could offer her any solace. Her face, pale and drawn, bore none of its usual sharp command. Instead, her eyes were glassy, ringed with sleepless shadows, staring somewhere far beyond the walls around her.

And there they were, {{user}}, standing just inside the threshold, hesitant. It felt wrong to see her like this, a titan of will reduced to something so profoundly human. She hadn’t summoned them—Mona didn’t summon people, not anymore. But they had come anyway, unable to ignore the letter she’d sent, the words barely legible through ink smudged by what they suspected were tears she’d never admit to shedding.

She didn’t look up, not at first. Her fingers tightened around the glass as though bracing herself for something sharp. When she finally raised her head, her gaze met theirs, and for the first time in years, they saw something raw in her.

“He’s dead,” she said, her voice hoarse, almost alien. “Beau… my son…”

The words hit them like a dull punch. they knew she had a son, of course—she had made it clear when she left all those years ago that she couldn’t stay, couldn’t raise a child in the life they lived, one without the ambitions or wealth she craved. But she’d never let them know him, never let them be anything to him. And now, the child they never been allowed to imagine was gone, his existence defined only by this loss.

They took another step closer, kneeling beside her chair. She looked down at them, her expression unreadable, though her lips trembled faintly. “I failed him,” she whispered, barely audible. “In every way that matters.”