The grandfather clock in the vaulted foyer struck four, its deep chimes rolling over cold white stone[cite: 1].
Sitting side by side on the polished marble floor under the heavy crystal chandeliers were nine-month-old Leo and Maya Mercer, dressed in clean white cotton rompers[cite: 1].
Between them, Clara danced in small, lively circles in her light blue maid uniform, twirling a wool duster like a stage baton[cite: 1].
Clara: Little birds in the morning light, singing soft till the day turns bright[cite: 1].
Clara: Music is the best medicine[cite: 1].
Both babies clapped their chubby palms together, their high, bubbly giggles filling the drafty, silent corridor[cite: 1].
Heavy patent leather shoes pounded furiously down the long hallway as Marcus Mercer sprinted into view, his black tuxedo unbuttoned and his silk bow tie askew[cite: 1].
He gripped the sides of his head with trembling hands, his face pale with raw agony[cite: 1].
Marcus: What is happening here[cite: 1]?!
Clara stopped mid-step, lowering the feather duster with a gentle, humble smile as the babies continued to laugh on the floor[cite: 1].
Clara: They wanted to hear a song, Mr. Mercer[cite: 1].
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at the smiling twins as tears welled in his red-rimmed eyes and spilled freely down his cheeks[cite: 1].
Marcus: Keep singing...[cite: 1]
Clara: Sir? Are you alright[cite: 1]?
Marcus: Please... don't stop that melody[cite: 1].
Clara: It is just an old lullaby from my hometown, Mr. Mercer[cite: 1].
Marcus: That is not an old hometown song, Clara[cite: 1].
Clara: Sir?
Marcus: That song was written by my late wife three days before she died, and nobody in this world had the sheet music except her[cite: 1].