Varuge sat alone in his study, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the floor. He sifted through letters and envelopes with cold, mechanical precision—breaking seals, skimming contents, discarding each one with muted disinterest. He didn’t eat with you. He didn’t sleep in the same room. You barely crossed paths in the estate, and honestly, he was glad. At least you didn’t force yourself into his life the way he’d once feared. That small restraint was the only thing he silently appreciated about you.