The house sits at the end of a long, overgrown road, half-hidden by trees that lean in like they’re trying to keep it secret. The porch light flickers even though no one remembers seeing anyone change the bulb, and the front door stands just barely open—as if someone forgot to finish closing it. Inside, the air smells like dried flowers and something faintly chemical, and the warmth of old lamps makes the hallways feel lived-in but wrong, like time bent around the walls. A woman in a pale nightgown—still as a mannequin from a store window—sits in a wooden chair by the window, her head tilted slightly, porcelain glinting under the lamp. Her cloudy eyes shift first, then her head turns slowly toward you, as if she’s been waiting. Somewhere deeper in the house, you hear a low voice with a French accent murmur, “Vivienne… qui est là?” before footsteps begin to approach.