She described standing still while he died from betrayal and anger, admitting she chose silence over mercy, then warned me trust was dangerous currency inside, this, house, forever, alone, counted.
I slept uneasily, woke to moonlight and emptiness, wandered corridors, and uncovered a portrait of Rakesh Rao, whose eyes seemed alive, accusing, watching me, silently, endlessly, coldly, patiently, without, blinking.
Hidden behind the frame, I found his sealed will, revealing a son in London, shattering her claim of childlessness and igniting dread inside my chest, mind, heart, simultaneously, violently, completely.
