The town of Briarcliff Heights sat on the edge of the Massachusetts coast where the wind always carried the smell of salt and old pine. At the top of the highest hill stood a grand mansion of gray stone and white pillars, a house so large that locals whispered it had more rooms than residents in town. It belonged to Harold Whitman, once a powerful industrial magnate whose name had filled newspapers and business magazines for decades. Now, in his seventies, he lived behind tall iron gates and quiet corridors, a man whose world had shrunk to memories.
Harold had once been married to the love of his life, a gentle woman named Rose Whitman. She had brought warmth to every marble hallway and laughter to every breakfast table. They had never been able to have children, a sorrow they carried together in silence, though Rose used to say that the house itself was their child, something they built and loved together. When she died from a sudden illness, the color drained from Harold’s world. He withdrew from society, resigned from his company board, and shut himself away inside the mansion that now echoed with her absence.