Morning sunlight spilled across the breakfast table, illuminating the delicate porcelain cups, the silver cutlery, and the small vase of white roses Valeria had arranged the previous evening.

It was, by all accounts, an exceptionally pleasant morning.

Valeria sat near the window in a soft black cardigan and a long skirt, her dark hair falling loosely over one shoulder. A plate of toast rested beside her breakfast, and her tea had already begun to cool while she occupied herself with the morning newspaper.

She wasn't particularly interested in politics, nor did she care much for the endless articles concerning the financial affairs of people she would never meet. She usually preferred the gardening column, the occasional review of a new book, and, when she was feeling especially indulgent, the pages devoted to wildlife.

Today, however, a particular headline had caught her attention.

THE OBULUS KILLER: ANOTHER CASE LEAVES AUTHORITIES WITHOUT ANSWERS.

Valeria paused with a piece of toast halfway to her mouth.

"Oh, honestly," she murmured.

She adjusted the newspaper and continued reading.

The article was full of speculation. The writer discussed the mysterious coin left behind at every scene, the apparent lack of a reliable identity, and the growing unease among those who believed the killer might have connections to the criminal underworld.

There were also several paragraphs devoted to theories about his personality, all of which Valeria found rather entertaining.

According to the article, he was supposedly an exceptionally disciplined individual who never acted without a carefully considered plan. Another source claimed he must be impulsive, given the nature of the crimes attributed to him. Someone else had apparently suggested that the coin was a ritualistic symbol intended to communicate with other criminals.

Valeria blinked at the page.

A ritual?

She took a sip of tea.

"That's a rather imaginative interpretation."

She continued reading, increasingly unconvinced by the article's conclusions. It wasn't that she was particularly eager to defend the man discussed on the page. She simply found it remarkable how confidently people could write about someone they knew so little about.

Of course, she had a rather unusual perspective.

Most people knew the Obulus Killer only as a name whispered in private conversations, a shadow attached to rumors, and a coin left behind as a calling card.

Valeria knew him as the man who occupied the other side of her bed, who sometimes left his coffee untouched until it went cold, and who had once spent an unnecessarily long time searching the house for a book she had moved three inches to the left.

She knew the weight of his footsteps in the hallway. She knew the difference between his ordinary silences and the ones that meant he was troubled by something. She knew which meals he preferred, which subjects he disliked discussing, and how rarely he admitted to being tired.

She also knew that none of those things made him an innocent man.

Valeria wasn't naïve enough to confuse the husband she loved with the reputation he had acquired. She understood the danger of his world, and she had never attempted to make herself part of it.

Still, reading strangers confidently invent an entire personality for her husband over breakfast was a peculiar experience.

She turned the page.

The next section contained a grainy photograph of a street cordoned off by police, accompanied by a dramatic account of the investigation. Valeria skimmed it, searching for anything that might actually be useful rather than merely sensational.

Then she stopped.

One detail was wrong.

Not necessarily something the authorities would notice, and certainly not anything she intended to discuss with a journalist, but it was enough to make her frown.

She read the passage again.

"No," she muttered, almost absently. "That doesn't make any sense."

The words escaped before she had properly considered them.

Valeria went still.

She slowly lowered the newspaper and glanced toward the other side of the breakfast table.

For a moment, she considered pretending she hadn't said anything at all. Perhaps she could blame the poor reporting, or claim she was talking about the article's spelling mistakes. There were several, actually, and she considered that a perfectly reasonable criticism.

Instead, she folded the newspaper neatly and placed it beside her plate.

"The reporting is dreadful," she announced, with the solemnity of someone delivering an important professional judgment. "I don't understand how they expect anyone to take an article seriously when half of it is speculation."

She reached for her teacup.

A moment passed.

"Besides, the coin business is rather strange, isn't it? Imagine being remembered for something so small."

Valeria took a thoughtful sip of tea, then added, "I suppose it makes sense. People do have a tendency to become fascinated with the most peculiar things."

She seemed satisfied with this explanation and returned to her breakfast.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the quiet clink of cutlery and the occasional rustle of newspaper pages. Beyond the windows, the garden was beginning to stir with birdsong, and Valeria's attention wandered toward the familiar branches outside.

A little sparrow had landed on the garden wall.

She watched it hop twice before disappearing behind a cluster of leaves.

"Oh! That reminds me," she said, turning back to the table. "I think I've found a place where I might be able to photograph a goldcrest. I've been trying to find one nearby for weeks, and I saw one in the garden yesterday."

Her expression brightened with genuine enthusiasm.

"If the weather stays pleasant, I might go out this afternoon. I should only be gone for a few hours, and I promise I won't come home with half the forest attached to my shoes this time."

A small smile crossed her face at the memory of a previous excursion.

Then her gaze fell to the folded newspaper again.

The headline remained visible above the edge of the page.

Valeria reached over and turned it facedown.

"There," she declared softly. "Much better. I don't think the morning needs to be any more unpleasant than it already is."

She picked up her toast again, entirely content to return to her breakfast.

After all, the newspaper could speculate all it liked.

The world could invent a thousand different stories about the Obulus Killer, argue over his motives, and wonder whether he was a monster or a mastermind.

Valeria had no intention of helping anyone solve the mystery.

She had a perfectly good breakfast to finish, a bird to photograph, and a husband whose coffee was probably getting cold.

And, in her opinion, those were far more pressing concerns.

The afternoon had been peaceful until the doorbell rang.

Valeria Syn had spent most of the day in the conservatory, surrounded by potted flowers, open notebooks, and the familiar sounds of birds calling from the garden. Her camera rested on the little table beside her, its lens catching the afternoon sunlight, while a half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten near the windowsill.

It was one of those rare afternoons when she had absolutely nothing pressing to attend to. No errands, no visitors, no obligations beyond perhaps preparing dinner later that evening.

She had been looking forward to it.

The doorbell rang again.

Valeria sighed softly, setting down her pencil before making her way through the house. She wasn't expecting anyone, but perhaps a delivery had arrived, or one of her husband's acquaintances had come by with a message.

Instead, when she opened the front door, she found herself staring at the one person she had never expected to see standing on her doorstep.

Her mother.

For several seconds, Valeria couldn't speak.

Her mother stood perfectly composed, dressed in an expensive coat with her hair neatly arranged and her expression carrying that familiar air of disapproval. She looked almost exactly as Valeria remembered her: polished, imposing, and utterly convinced that the world ought to accommodate her wishes.

Her gaze traveled over Valeria's appearance before settling on her face.

"Well," her mother remarked. "You certainly took your time answering the door."

Valeria's fingers curled around the edge of it.

"Mother."

"Is that all I get? Not even a proper greeting?" Her mother gave a small, disapproving shake of her head. "Honestly, Valeria. Marriage seems to have done very little to improve your manners."

The familiar criticism settled into Valeria's chest like an old, unwelcome weight.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting anyone."

"Clearly." Her mother glanced past her into the house. "Are you going to invite me inside, or must I stand here all afternoon?"

For a moment, Valeria considered telling her that she wasn't welcome.

The thought was startling enough that she nearly lost her nerve.

Instead, the old habit won.

"Of course. Come in."

She stepped aside, allowing her mother to enter the house.

The woman immediately began looking around, taking in the polished floors, the elegant furniture, and the flowers arranged throughout the sitting room. Her expression shifted into something between curiosity and judgment.

"So this is where you've been hiding yourself," she remarked. "I must admit, I expected something a little more extravagant, considering the sort of man you've married."

Valeria closed the door quietly behind her.

"Would you like some tea?"

Her mother turned to look at her.

"Must you always do that?"

Valeria blinked. "Do what?"

"Change the subject whenever someone says something you don't like. You've been doing it since you were a child."

The words struck a familiar nerve.

Valeria lowered her gaze and led her mother into the sitting room, where she offered her a seat before preparing the tea. She kept herself busy with the porcelain cups and teapot, grateful for something to occupy her hands.

Her mother, meanwhile, seemed perfectly comfortable making herself at home.

"I suppose your husband keeps you quite comfortable," she continued. "Though I can't imagine what a man like him sees in someone who spends her days taking pictures of birds."

Valeria carefully poured the tea.

"I enjoy photography."

"Yes, I remember. You've always been more interested in playing with your little hobbies than doing anything useful."

Valeria's hand stilled around the teapot's handle.

For a moment, she was no longer sitting in her own home, surrounded by flowers and warm afternoon sunlight. She was a little girl again, listening to her mother dismiss something she loved as pointless, foolish, and embarrassing.

She remembered how she'd learned to stop sharing her interests. How she'd stopped asking for things. How she'd gradually become so accustomed to criticism that she could hardly distinguish it from ordinary conversation.

She set the teapot down.

"I happen to enjoy my life," she said quietly.

Her mother raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"I said I enjoy my life."

A brief silence followed.

Then her mother laughed, though there was little warmth in it.

"Oh, darling. You always were so sensitive. I'm only trying to help you understand the world. You can't spend your entire life hiding behind your husband."

Valeria brought the cups to the table and sat opposite her.

"I'm not hiding behind him."

"No? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks rather as though you've traded one household for another and convinced yourself that makes you independent."

Valeria's eyes flickered toward the window.

Outside, a small bird landed on the garden wall, its head turning as it surveyed the flowers. Under different circumstances, she would have reached for her camera.

Instead, she found herself staring at the bird and wishing, absurdly, that she could trade places with it.

At least it could fly away whenever it pleased.

Her mother lifted her teacup.

"Now, don't look at me like that. I've come all this way because I thought we might finally have a proper conversation. You hardly visit anymore, and you never answer my calls promptly. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have a daughter who behaves as though her own family doesn't exist?"

Valeria's fingers tightened around her wedding ring.

She had spent years believing that keeping her mother happy was a responsibility she could never escape. If she was quiet enough, helpful enough, agreeable enough, perhaps there would eventually be a day when she was considered good enough.

That day had never come.

And now, sitting in a home she shared with a man the entire criminal underworld feared, Valeria was beginning to understand something she had never quite allowed herself to believe.

She didn't have to keep trying.

"I don't think you came here because you wanted to have a proper conversation," she said.

Her mother's teacup paused halfway to her lips.

"What did you say?"

Valeria swallowed.

"I think you came here because you wanted to see whether I was still willing to do whatever you asked of me."

Her mother's expression hardened.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm your mother."

"I know."

"After everything I've done for you, you owe me a little respect."

Valeria looked down at her hands.

There it was. The same argument, the same familiar accusation, the same expectation that the mere fact of being her mother meant she could never be questioned.

"I have tried to respect you," Valeria answered. "For a very long time."

Her voice trembled, but she continued.

"I've tried to be a good daughter. I've tried to make you happy. I've tried to convince myself that if I just did things differently, perhaps we might finally get along."

She drew a shaky breath.

"But I'm tired, Mother."

For the first time since arriving, her mother seemed to have no immediate response.

Valeria glanced around the sitting room. At the flowers she had arranged herself. At the books stacked beside the fireplace. At the camera she had left in the conservatory. At all the little pieces of a life she had built after leaving the place where she'd grown up.

"I don't want to argue with you," she continued. "I don't want to spend the afternoon making excuses for myself, and I don't want to feel as though I've done something wrong simply because I'm happy."

Her mother set her cup down with a sharp click.

"So this is what your husband has done to you. He's convinced you that your own family is the enemy."

Valeria's expression changed.

"No."

The answer came more quickly than she expected.

She straightened slightly in her chair.

"My husband hasn't told me what to think about you. He hasn't asked me to stop seeing you, and he hasn't asked me to choose between you."

She paused, her thumb moving absently over the smooth surface of her wedding ring.

"This is my decision."

Her mother's eyes narrowed.

"And what happens when he gets tired of you? What happens when he realizes that a quiet little thing like you isn't nearly as interesting as you think you are? Where will you go then, Valeria? Back to us?"

For a moment, the old fear returned in full force.

The possibility of losing the life she had built was something Valeria rarely allowed herself to contemplate. She loved her husband, and the thought of a future without him frightened her more than she cared to admit.

But even that fear couldn't make her agree with her mother.

"I hope you won't speak about my marriage as though you know anything about it," she said.

Her mother gave a humorless laugh.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. I'm simply trying to make sure you understand your situation."

"No," Valeria replied, more firmly this time. "You're trying to make me afraid of losing something that makes me happy."

The words hung between them.

Valeria stared at her mother, scarcely believing she had said them aloud.

Her hands were trembling in her lap. She wanted to retreat to the conservatory, close the door, and spend the rest of the afternoon pretending this visit had never happened.

But she was tired of being frightened in her own home.

"I think you should leave," she said.

Her mother stared at her.

For several seconds, the only sound was the ticking of the clock above the fireplace.

Then the older woman rose from her chair, smoothing the front of her coat.

"I see. Well, I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything else. You've always been ungrateful, Valeria. I only hope you remember this conversation when your little fantasy of a marriage finally falls apart."

Valeria stood as well, though her knees felt unsteady.

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Don't pretend to be sorry. You've made your choice."

Her mother gathered her belongings, but rather than heading for the front door, she remained beside her chair, looking at Valeria with an expression of cold disappointment.

"Does your husband know how you really are?" she asked. "Or have you managed to fool him into thinking you're some sort of perfect little wife, too?"

Valeria's breath caught.

She thought of the man she had married. Of the life they shared behind closed doors, the quiet mornings, the evenings spent together, and the peculiar, unexpected comfort she had found in a relationship that had begun under the most extraordinary circumstances.

She thought of how much he knew about her, including the parts of herself she had once been ashamed to reveal.

"He knows me better than you think," she answered.

Her mother scoffed.

"Well, I certainly hope he realizes what he's gotten himself into."

Valeria's lips parted, but no response came immediately. Her mother's words had found their mark, stirring up old insecurities she had never entirely managed to silence.

Then, from somewhere beyond the sitting room, came the faint sound of approaching footsteps.

Valeria's attention shifted toward the doorway.

Her mother noticed the movement and turned her head, her expression changing as she realized they were no longer alone in the house.

Valeria's shoulders stiffened instinctively, and her fingers found the edge of her wedding ring. She wasn't certain whether she felt embarrassed about the conversation being overheard or relieved that she might no longer have to endure it by herself.

Perhaps both.

She drew a quiet breath, attempting to compose herself before the moment could stretch any further.

"Mother," she said, her voice softer now but still firm, "I would appreciate it if you remembered that this is my home."

The footsteps came closer.

Valeria remained beside the sofa, her eyes fixed on the sitting-room entrance as the conversation hung unfinished in the air.

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the little tea room, casting warm golden light across the polished tables and delicate porcelain cups. Outside, the city bustled with its usual chaos, but inside, everything felt pleasantly unhurried.

Valeria Syn sat comfortably among three of her closest lady friends, her long black hair loosely pinned back with a ribbon, a few stray strands framing her face. She wore a simple black dress beneath a soft cardigan, her wedding ring catching the light whenever she lifted her teacup.

"...I'm telling you, he actually said that to her face?" one of the women exclaimed, looking positively scandalized.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Evelyn," another laughed, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea. "You know perfectly well that man has never possessed a single ounce of tact."

Valeria let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth with her fingertips. "Perhaps that's why his wife has started bringing a book everywhere she goes. I saw her at the market yesterday, reading while he complained about the price of apples."

The women burst into laughter, and Valeria's smile widened just a little. These were the moments she treasured most: unremarkable afternoons, warm tea, and conversations that concerned nothing more serious than other people's questionable marriages.

Eventually, the conversation drifted toward the women themselves. There were questions about new dresses, an upcoming charity luncheon, and whether Valeria would be attending the little garden gathering planned for the following weekend.

"You'll come, won't you, Valeria?" Evelyn asked, leaning forward with an expectant smile. "You hardly ever join us for anything anymore! Surely your husband can spare you for an afternoon?"

Valeria tilted her head, a faintly amused expression settling over her delicate features.

"My husband is perfectly capable of surviving an afternoon without me," she replied, her voice gentle. "Whether he'll remember to eat something other than whatever happens to be in the kitchen is another matter entirely."

"Oh, so you do spoil him!" The third woman teased.

Valeria's cheeks warmed faintly. She lowered her gaze to her tea, hiding a small smile behind the rim of her cup.

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

Another round of laughter filled the little tea room, and for a while, Valeria allowed herself to forget about the things that existed beyond her peaceful little world.

Then Evelyn leaned closer, lowering her voice with the unmistakable expression of someone about to share a particularly interesting piece of gossip.

"Speaking of husbands... have either of you heard about the latest rumors circulating through the city?" She whispered. "Apparently, there's been another incident involving that dreadful Obulus Killer."

Valeria's teacup paused halfway to her lips.

Only for a moment.

She calmly took a sip, her expression remaining perfectly composed before she set the porcelain cup back onto its saucer.

"Another incident?" she asked mildly. "How dreadful."

Evelyn nodded enthusiastically, completely unaware of the subtle change in Valeria's attention.

"I know! They say the authorities still haven't the slightest idea who he is. Can you imagine being married to someone capable of keeping such a terrible secret?"

Valeria glanced down at the wedding ring resting against her finger, turning it absently with her thumb.

For the briefest moment, an almost private smile touched her lips.

"Yes," she murmured. "I imagine that would be quite something."

Then she looked back at her friends, her expression softening into its usual warmth.

"Now, are we going to discuss the garden gathering, or shall we spend the entire afternoon frightening ourselves with rumors?"

.