The wind howled like a wounded animal, tearing at the edges of the world as if trying to rip it apart. The house on the cliff stood defiant against the storm, its stone walls weathered but unyielding. It had been there for centuries, perched on the edge of the world, overlooking the churning sea below. To the villagers in the valley, it was a place of whispers and warnings. To Eleanor Hart, it was home. Eleanor stood at the window, her fingers tracing the cold glass. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within her. She had returned to the house after ten years, fleeing a life that had crumbled like sand through her fingers. The city, with its noise and chaos, had swallowed her whole and spat her out, leaving her hollow. Now, she was back in the place where her childhood had been both a sanctuary and a prison. The house was exactly as she remembered it: the high ceilings, the creaking wooden floors, the smell of salt and damp stone. But it was also different. The shadows seemed deeper, the silence heavier. Her father's absence was a presence in itself, a void that filled every room. He had died six months ago, leaving her the house and a letter she had yet to open.