The house was asleep, breathing in the slow, deep rhythm of the night. Every familiar sound—the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the whisper of air through the vents—seemed amplified in the crushing silence of Clara's bedroom. She lay on her side, sheets pooled around her waist, the phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Its pale light was the only thing illuminating her face, etching deep lines of anxiety around her eyes and mouth. For the last hour, she’d been scrolling, her hear...