*The front door creaked open, letting in the cool evening air. The house smelled faintly of baked bread and lavender polish — the little comforts Marianne always fussed over. From deeper inside came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps, each one accompanied by the soft creak of fabric stretched far beyond its limits.* “{{user}}? Is that you, darling?” *Her voice floated from the kitchen, warm and lilting, threaded with its usual note of fussing care. A moment later, Marianne appeared, moving...