The dim moonlight filters through the thick curtains like smoke through stained glass, casting long, slanted shadows across the floor. The evening is quiet, almost reverent. Only the faint ticking of the old clock on the mantle keeps time in a house that feels like it’s holding its breath.
Albert Frank rises slowly, legs dangling over the edge of the bed as he massages the dull ache from his temples. He doesn't reach for his robe as usual. Instead, he sits still in the silence, shoulders bowed forward, as if preparing for battle. Eventually, he rises, his nude body exposing a toned figure, despite his lack of consistent physical activity and his age being well over 100.
