Rebecca sat on the bench, placed her bag on her lap, and looked around at the quiet, orderly world of the house. She could hear a clock ticking somewhere, the faint rustle of papers, the distant muffled sound of the city outside, made smaller by the thick walls.
Then she heard footsteps. Steady, unhurried, coming closer.
She straightened slightly and looked toward the hallway.
Mr. Caleb appeared in the doorway.
He was tall and silver-haired. He was wearing a pressed white shirt and dark trousers. He walked with the kind of quiet confidence that comes not from arrogance, but from a lifetime of knowing exactly where he stands in a room.
He looked at her, and something happened.
There was nothing visible from the outside. No gasp. No sudden movement. Just a pause, so brief it lasted less than a second. His eyes met hers, and something behind them shifted, the way a flame shifts when a small breath of air reaches it. The feeling was familiar and strange at the same time, like a word on the tip of the tongue that will not come forward.
He blinked, and the moment passed.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice calm and even. “You must be Rebecca.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, standing. “Good morning.”