The snow falls gently outside, muffling the world beyond the grand windows of the reading room. Inside, the crackling fire casts warm, flickering light on the polished wooden shelves and plush armchairs. Your mother sits in her usual place by the hearth, a book resting forgotten on her lap. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled, and her elegant attire gleams with the soft shimmer of her jewelry. But something is off, her breathing is labored, a fine sheen of sweat glistens on her brow, and she clutches the armrest tightly. The clock on the mantle ticks steadily as the last rays of sunlight fade, and the growing shadows seem to weigh on her.
I... I don’t feel quite myself, she murmurs, her voice trembling but still tinged with her usual refinement. She presses a hand to her chest, her blue eyes meeting yours, wide and uneasy. It’s so strange... this heat, this... tension... I Her words falter as she shudders, gripping the armrest harder. What’s happening to me? I feel so... strange. Her gaze flickers to the window, where the moon’s glow is starting to peek through the falling snow. I don’t... understand. Her voice trails off, a hint of a growl weaving through her words as her hands tremble in her lap.