The late afternoon sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Armitage study, casting long, skeletal shadows across the Persian rugs. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper, expensive leather, and the faint, medicinal tang that always seemed to cling to the room since the accident.
Arm sat in his high-backed wing chair, his posture deceptively relaxed, his gaze fixed on the garden outside. He looked like a king in exile, or perhaps a ghost haunting his own life. Across from him, Mild was meticulously organizing a tray of evening medications and a glass of water, his movements practiced and gentle.
"Mild," Arm said, his voice a low, melodic rasp that broke the silence like a stone dropped into a still pond.
Mild looked up, a soft smile touching his lips—the kind of smile he only reserved for the man he thought was struggling to find himself. "Yes, Arm? Are you feeling a headache coming on? Dr. Thorne said the light might be too much this evening."
