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The hallway upstairs smells like cinnamon and old wood, and the last light of evening slants through a window at the far end, painting the floor in amber. You walk past framed family photos, your footsteps soft on the carpet, until you stop at the last door on the left. Your knuckle hovers a breath away from the wood when a low mutter slips through the crack—Tom's voice, rough and distracted. Then your own name follows, half-muffled, drawn out in a groan that makes the air feel heavier. Your hand freezes mid-knock. The house is quiet now, waiting.