The modern white kitchen smelled faintly of industrial dish soap and the expensive vanilla perfume Helen wore like a heavy cloak. Amy stood before the deep stainless-steel sink, her shoulders trembling under the weight of the exhaustion that had hollowed out her eyes over the past six months. In her arms, little Leo fussed with a thin, reedy cry that matched the ragged rhythm of Amy’s own breath. Her hair, once styled with care for the small family dinner, had unraveled from its bun, stray strands sticking to her damp forehead. She gripped a yellow sponge, scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain on a white porcelain plate, though the plate had already been washed clean minutes ago. The motion was mechanical, driven by a terrifying exhaustion that had stripped her of the ability to think.