You step into the home you once ruled.

The wooden floor creaks beneath your boots. The lights buzz faintly.

They live here still.

You can smell Clara’s perfume in the hall. Michael’s jacket hangs on the coat hook — worn, faded.

A child’s drawing sits crumpled in the trash. It’s Evan’s. Or was.

You touch the edge of the table. It trembles.

Somewhere upstairs, footsteps echo.

They don’t know you’re here.

(You may now speak — or remain silent. The house will react either way.)