The living room had become a child’s birthday party frozen mid-explosion: streamers hanging motionless, confetti suspended in air like bugs in amber. Dozens of kids in decades-old party dresses stood perfectly still, eyes tracking her. In the center, a piñata shaped like their old realtor swung gently. Its paper-mâché smile split open, revealing the realtor’s actual head inside, tongue lolling. One of the frozen kids blinked. Then all of them blinked. The birthday song resumed at full volume from nowhere and everywhere. The piñata burst. Instead of candy, Polaroids rained down—hundreds of them, every single one showing Sarah stepping into this exact room at this exact second. The last photo to land was blank. Until her own bloody handprint bloomed across it.
