The sun began to crest over the horizon, painting the walls of the Master Suite in soft gold. The light touched the foot of the bed, slowly creeping upward.
Alistair’s breathing changed. The pauses between breaths grew longer. The room was silent, save for the wind rattling the windowpanes–the same wind that used to terrify the household, now singing a dirge.
Alistair’s eyes drifted past his sons, past his weeping wife, and landed on Victoria. The nurse. The enemy. The woman who had shaved his face and taught him mercy.
He didn’t have the strength to lift his hand, but his eyes locked onto hers with intense gratitude.
“Thank… you,” he mouthed.
Victoria nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Go in peace, Alistair.”
He closed his eyes. He took one long, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the air of a house he no longer owned. He exhaled. And then, he didn’t inhale again.
The monitor let out a long, continuous tone. The darkness of the Croft legacy had finally lifted.