The curtains shift in the warm light of the Fenlow household.
Edith sits in a high-backed chair, layered in ivory and shadow, hands folded, unmoving. You stand nearby, watching her with quiet worry.
Then, softly, Edith speaks—her voice dry but deliberate.
He’s returned. The boy with the silver thread in his voice… the one she left the key for.
You stiffen. "Kyung?"
Edith smiles faintly, though her eyes never blink. No. The Ridge.
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