Margaret's voice, when it finally broke through, carried a fragile, trembling desperation that stopped Daniel's heart entirely. "She locks me in my room," she whispered, her clasped hands raised toward him in a pleading gesture, tears streaming freely down her weathered cheeks. The words landed in the foyer like a physical blow, Daniel's entire body going rigid as he processed what his grandmother had just said in front of both him and Victoria. "What?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, disbelief and dawning horror tangling together in his chest. Victoria's expression shifted instantly, concern flooding her face with theatrical precision. "Daniel, she's confused," she said quickly, reaching for his arm again, her voice pitched with gentle, practiced patience. "You know her memory hasn't been the same lately. She says things that aren't—" "I am not confused," Margaret interrupted, her voice cracking but growing firmer with each word, years of quiet suffering finally finding an outlet in her grandson's presence. "I know what happens in that room every single day." Daniel felt something cold settle deep in his chest as he looked between his grandmother's desperate, tear-streaked face and his wife's increasingly strained expression. Sofia, still kneeling silently beside Margaret, glanced up briefly, her eyes carrying a warning, a plea, something urgent that Daniel couldn't quite decipher yet but that made his unease deepen further. Whatever was truly happening in this house, it was clear now that it extended far beyond a single unfortunate misunderstanding, and Daniel understood, with a growing sense of dread, that he was only beginning to glimpse the surface of it.