The study of Auguste Laurent hadn't changed much in the years since his death.
The moment Anastasia stepped further into the room, a deep stillness settled around her like a velvet cloak. Dust motes danced lazily in the muted light that filtered through the tall, arched windows, catching in the golden rays as if reluctant to let go of the past. The heavy curtains were drawn halfway open, revealing slivers of the grey New York skyline beyond. It was a cold morning, but the kind that carried the scent of snow and steel, the kind that made you feel something was shifting beneath the surface.
The scent in the room hit her first—a complex mixture of old books, aged leather, cedarwood, and something almost intangible: nostalgia. Her father's cologne still clung faintly to the upholstered chair behind the mahogany desk, and the ghosts of late-night meetings and whispered decisions echoed faintly off the dark wood paneling.
