She cleaned compulsively, paced, whispered, and corrected details no one else noticed. Floors were rewetted and polished. Objects aligned, realigned. Her mind circled endlessly, inventing betrayals, neglect, and slights. The rituals never calmed her. They only prolonged the sense that something remained unfinished.

The house I lived in was not made of wood or stone. It was built from expectation and inheritance, from silence arranged as order, from rituals passed down like furniture no one ever questioned.