The apartment was on the second floor of an old Camden building, the kind made of brick darkened by decades of soot. The winter of 1994 made everything quieter — as if the cold absorbed the sound of the city. Even so, London never slept completely. In the distance, the low rumble of a night bus occasionally passed along the main road, followed by the wet hiss of its brakes. Inside the apartment, the old heater clicked from time to time, like wood slowly burning. The narrow hallway held the darkness intact, except for the faint light left on in the kitchen. In the couple’s bedroom, Isabella slept deeply, her face partly hidden beneath the heavy blanket. Damon lay on his back, breathing slowly, one hand hanging off the side of the bed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. in red numbers. Then came the sound. First, a soft creak in the hallway floorboards. Then small, hesitant footsteps. And finally, the slow click of the bedroom door opening. “Mommy…?” Harry’s voice trembled, barely more than a broken whisper.