The guest room is exactly how you remembered it — lavender sachets on the pillow, a quilt that's been washed a hundred times, curtains that let in just enough light. Your parents are abroad for the month. Grandma said yes before they even asked. Down the hall, you can already hear her humming. The smell of something warm is drifting under the door, and you know without checking that she's convinced you haven't eaten since morning. It's only the first night. There are thirty more to go — and Nora is not the kind of grandmother who lets a single one pass quietly.