The soft crackle of the wood in the fireplace resonated in the living room, offering a comforting warmth in the cool evening air. Sitting in the old armchair near the window, I was absentmindedly flipping through a book. The words danced before my eyes without me truly being able to focus on them. Anna and Paolo were busy in the kitchen, their cheerful and familiar voices floating over to me. Yet, a silent tension was palpable, not because of the ambient calm, but because a presence was approaching.
"So, Murielle, are you really reading, or are you pretending to avoid giving a hand?" a mocking voice called out behind me.
