***
Magnus slammed the whiskey bottle down on the kitchen counter so hard the glass nearly cracked.
He had already drunk too much. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt collar open.
Timothy stood a few steps away, watching as Magnus staggered toward the stairs, his steps uneven but fast.
“Mr. Graves, you’re going to fall,” Timothy called out in alarm.
Magnus ignored him.
He climbed the stairs with unsteady steps, gripping the railing tightly. His breathing was rough, uneven.
He stormed into the bedroom and flung the door open.
The bed was still neatly made, the sheets smooth, cold, and undisturbed — as if Sophia had never slept there at all.
Something in his chest tightened painfully.
The next second, his eyes landed on a large pair of scissors resting on the side table.
He grabbed them.
Without hesitation, he plunged the blade into the mattress and dragged it across the surface.
The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the room.
Again. And again.
Feathers and cotton burst out from the mattress, flying into the air like white snow. He ripped through it mercilessly, stabbing and tearing as if trying to destroy the memory itself.
His hand slipped at one point. The sharp edge cut into his palm as he gripped the blade too tightly.
Blood began to drip onto the shredded bed.
But he didn’t stop.
By the time the bed was completely destroyed, the room was a disaster.
His breathing turned heavier. His chest rose and fell violently.
Timothy appeared at the doorway, horror and worry in his eyes.
“Mr. Graves, your hand—”
Magnus didn’t respond.
He turned sharply and stormed into the bathroom.
Some of Sophia’s things were still there.
Her creams. Her toothbrush. Small personal items neatly arranged on the counter.
His jaw clenched.
With one furious sweep of his arm, he knocked everything off the counter. Bottles crashed onto the floor, rolling away.
He grabbed what remained and threw it into the trash bin beside the cabinet.
