The day settled over the village with a hush that clung to curtains and stair rails, as if every house was waiting for something—perhaps a visitor, perhaps a decision made in secret. Outside, leaves gathered in careful piles; inside, voices lowered over teacups, measuring each word against an invisible ledger. It was not the sort of morning for grand declarations or sudden laughter; rather, it was one for noticing what lingered at the edges: the way sunlight fell unevenly across the carpet, how Mrs. Blackwood’s cat watched from its window perch with silent judgment.