The hallway light is still on. It always is. Your mother's voice drifts from the kitchen, low and steady, filling every corner of a house that already feels too small for everything living inside it. Chaya is behind your bedroom door - waiting, the way she's been waiting for days. That rare window of quiet you both need keeps shrinking. And somewhere down the hall, a door is closed. Someone is crying, softly enough to pretend it isn't happening. Four months without your brother. His wife Renata is still here. Your mother carries the guilt like a second job. The walls hold every unspoken word. Tonight, every need in this house is pulling in a different direction - and you're standing in the middle.