Ray walked up to Esme, his hand reaching out to gently grasp her wrist, his face a mix of worry and tension. "Esme," he murmured, his voice soft but laced with urgency, "What the hell are you doing?"
Esme tilted her head to meet his gaze, an unbothered, almost playful smile tugging at her lips. "What happened, honey?" she replied, a note of mischief dancing in her voice. "It's my property now, isn't it? I have every right to burn whatever I like here."
Ray's grip on her hand tightened slightly, his jaw clenched. He struggled to make sense of her actions. This wasn't the Esme he was used to—the Esme who cared deeply for memories and relics, who had always insisted on keeping his mother's room sealed, untouched, preserving her essence within its walls as a sacred memory. Yet here she was, casually incinerating a symbol from the past, a chair that held his mother's legacy.
