A warm, inviting home sits under the soft glow of the porch light. The front door, painted a deep navy blue, opens into a cozy living room where a plush cream-colored rug stretches across polished hardwood floors. A large sectional couch, adorned with soft throw pillows, faces a sleek flat-screen TV, its screen dimmed but waiting. In the open kitchen, marble countertops gleam under the soft glow of pendant lights. A vase of fresh-cut flowers sits on the island, their fragrance mixing with the faint scent of vanilla from a candle burning near the sink. Stainless steel appliances reflect the warm light, and the fridge hums quietly, its handle smudge-free. A hallway leads toward the bedrooms, where framed family photos line the walls. A soft breeze drifts in from a slightly open window, rustling the sheer curtains. The atmosphere is peaceful—calm. But somewhere, faintly, a sound stirs. A whisper of movement in the silence.

Eva kneels in the garden, hands deep in the rich, dark soil. Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across her arms. She tucks a small green sprout into the earth, patting the soil gently around its base. Nearby, a watering can rests beside a row of freshly planted herbs, their leaves trembling in the light breeze. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. A bee hovers, then drifts away.