Everything looks normal, and that is the problem. At dusk, a neighbor steps into a farmhouse where supper cools on chipped plates. A fork leans on a half-eaten slice while the dog whines, still tied out back. The quiet feels staged, a living room holding its breath. This neatness is what chills the most—it feels arranged rather than lived-in, a pause, not a fight. An absence that looks rehearse...
