At the Finnegan residence, the atmosphere had remained quiet—eerily so. Lana had tried to distract herself with chores and small tasks throughout the afternoon, but something gnawed at her. The house felt emptier than usual. By early evening, a growing sense of unease settled in her chest. She hadn't seen Dessie since lunchtime.
Curious and mildly concerned, she walked through the hallway and called out, "Dessie? Are you upstairs?"
No reply.
She checked Dessie's room, expecting to find her perhaps napping or lost in one of her sulking moods, but the room was empty. The bed untouched. The windows closed. Curtains drawn. Lana frowned and glanced around. Something felt... off.
She headed downstairs and found her husband seated in the living room reading through a report. "Draco," she said softly, then more urgently, "Draco, have you seen Dessie today?"
He looked up from his paper. "No, I thought she was in her room. Why?"
