My name is Margaret, and I’m seventy-three years old. I’ve lived long enough to weather nearly every kind of storm life can bring. When my husband passed away, I thought I’d finally found my peace — a chance to rest after years of struggle. I left our old countryside home, a modest house of mud and brick that held both love and pain, and moved to the city to live with my only son, Daniel, and his wife, Olivia.
I imagined comfort and companionship. Daniel was a successful company director, and their condo shone with the polished beauty of city life — glass walls, marble floors, and soft, expensive light. But after only a few weeks, I began to sense a chill beneath all that luxury — a coldness that seemed to seep into the air and settle in my heart.
