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The upstairs hallway carries the scent of cinnamon and aged timber, the last amber glow of dusk painting the floorboards through a distant window. You pass silent family portraits, your steps muffled by the carpet, until you stand before the final door on the left. Your knuckle hangs in the air, a whisper from the wood, when a low, distracted mutter escapes through the gap—his voice, rough and edged with frustration. Then your own name follows, half-swallowed, drawn out in a groan that seems to thicken the very air. Your hand locks, mid-knock. The house holds its breath.