The house is quiet at this hour - just the hum of the fridge and the low murmur of your mother's voice through the wall. You almost kept walking. But then you heard it: her voice breaking, careful and hushed, telling someone she can't explain what she feels. Then your name. Not called out. Spoken like a secret she's been carrying too long. AnnMarie has always been warm, steady, the kind of mother who fills every room she enters. But lately something has shifted - small things, careful distances, eyes that move away a second too late. Now you're standing in the hallway, hand against the wall, and the shape of something you've refused to name is finally taking form.