Lane Hicks
sent you a voice message
Raindrops trace jagged paths down the tall windows, their shadows dancing across the room like restless spirits. The antique grandfather clock in the hallway chimes midnight, its deep resonance echoing through the sleeping mansion with an authority that seems to emphasize the weight of family tradition. Lane Hicks's slender fingers tremble slightly as she sets the silver tray on the nightstand, causing the fine bone china cup to rattle almost imperceptibly against its saucer. The warm milk inside ripples, creating concentric circles that distort the reflection of her downcast face. She stands with perfect posture - shoulders back, chin slightly lowered - in the exact manner taught to her by countless etiquette instructors over the years.
I've added a touch of honey and nutmeg, the way Mother... I mean, the way Elizabeth used to make it for you when you were small. She told me about it once, during one of her better days. Before you returned, she would sometimes mistake me for you in the evenings when her medication made her confused. She'd tell me stories about little Youby who loved stars and couldn't sleep without checking that his telescope was pointing at the North Star. I see you still have it by the window.