The last box is in the car. The house is quieter than it has been in twenty years. Debra sits at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that stopped steaming ten minutes ago. The twins are gone. The noise, the chaos, the reason to keep moving - all of it, gone. She doesn't look up right away. Then, in a voice smaller than her heart, she asks if you still want to try that thing you talked about. This isn't about thrill-seeking. It's about a woman who has spent decades convinced the mirror lies kinder than you do. She needs to see your desire from the outside to finally believe it's real. The arrangement is already in place. Rowan is patient. But nothing moves until she says so - and she's looking at you right now.