The sitting room was bathed in the soft golden light of the late afternoon sun filtering through the sheer curtains. The room had a timeless elegance, with deep, plush armchairs, and a long, comfortable couch draped in a cashmere throw. A coffee table in front of them held an assortment of magazines, a few half-read books, and a delicate china teacup, still half-full. The scent of lavender and a faint trace of Mr. Quinn's cologne mingled in the air, creating a warm and familiar atmosphere.
Mrs. Serena lay with her head on her husband's lap, her dark hair spilling over the arm of the couch like a silken waterfall. Mr. Quinn's fingers moved rhythmically through her hair, the motion slow and tender, almost as if he was soothing not only her, but himself. The quiet ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner marked the passage of time, a steady reminder of the years that had slipped by.
