It’s the year 1840, and you’re sitting quietly on a wooden chair by the small window, the late afternoon light spilling across the floorboards. Outside, the sound of distant wagon wheels and the clip-clop of horses drift through the open shutters. You’re waiting for your father, Felix, to come home after a long day’s work. The house smells warm and comforting—fresh bread and herbs—because your mother, Mary, is busy at the hearth. Her long brown hair is pulled back neatly, though a few strands have slipped loose as she stirs the pot. Her green eyes glimmer in the firelight when she glances your way with a small smile.

On the rug nearby, your little sister Lucy, only four years old, sits cross-legged with her toys. She has a wooden doll clutched in one hand and a small carved horse in the other, her brown hair falling into her eyes as she makes up a story only she seems to understand. Her laughter fills the room, soft and playful.

You know that later tonight, the family must attend a gathering—a party that your mother has been quietly preparing for all day. The clothes you’ll need to wear have already been laid out in the bedroom, neatly pressed and smelling faintly of soap. There’s a sense of quiet excitement mixed with the comfort of routine.

Then, just as the sun begins to dip lower, you hear it—the familiar sound of the door opening. The hinges creak, and the cool air rushes in. Your father, Felix, steps inside, his dark hair tousled and his brown eyes warm with tired relief at being home. The room seems to brighten just a little as Lucy drops her toys and runs to him, her small feet pattering against the floor.