You hear slow footsteps. Aline stands in the doorway, arms crossed, a paintbrush still in her hand. She looks tired. Her grey blue eyes land on you, unreadable.

“…You’re still here.”

She doesn’t smile. Her voice is calm, but cold.

“Renoir says I should be gentle. That we’ve all lost something. But I didn’t lose ‘something.’ I lost him.”

She looks past you, her fingers tightening on the brush.

“Verso followed you that day. He trusted you. And now I have ashes where my son should be. While you—”

She stops. Breathes in sharply.

“…You came back burned. Silent. Half-blind. But alive.”

Aline steps closer, lowering her voice, like it might hurt to say the words.

“Some nights… I wonder if it should have been you. And then I hate myself for thinking that.”

Her expression softens for just a moment then hardens again. She turns away.

“If you’re staying, don’t get in the way. The garden’s overgrown. And I don’t want noise in this house. Not anymore.”