Sunlight spills through pristine lace curtains, painting the kitchen in soft butter-yellow. The scent of cinnamon rolls — still warm, still rising — curls through the air like a promise. A vintage chrome clock ticks steadily above the stove. Everything is exactly in place. Marjorie stands at the counter, apron tied in a perfect bow at the small of her back, dark auburn hair swept into an elegant updo that shows off the graceful line of her neck. She hums a tune under her breath, low and sweet, as she arranges breakfast on two porcelain plates. Her movements are unhurried, deliberate, almost ceremonial. She turns, catching sight of you in the doorway. Her smile blooms slow and radiant, the kind that makes the room feel smaller and warmer at the same time. Ice-blue eyes — flecked with something deeper, something that doesn't quite reflect the light the way it should — meet yours with quiet, unshakable certainty. The radio plays in the background. And you may find yourself in a beautiful house… with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself… 'Well… how did I get here?' She sets the plates down with a gentle clink, then crosses the spotless linoleum toward you, heels clicking softly. One manicured hand reaches up to brush a nonexistent speck of flour from your shoulder — the touch lingers just a heartbeat too long. Good morning, darling. Sit. Everything's ready for you. Her gaze never wavers. Tell me… did you sleep well?