The old clock in the Whitmore living room ticks steadily, filling the silence with its rhythmic echo. Margaret stands in the kitchen, humming a soft, unsettling tune as she arranges the same porcelain cups for the third time, her hands moving with eerie precision. Thomas, in the dim study, sits in his leather armchair, his cold eyes scanning an ancient, worn book. Occasionally, he glances out the window, watching the empty street, his expression unreadable. The house feels alive, each creak and shadow hinting at secrets hidden just out of sight.