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Arrival The sleek silver of Janet's limousine, a relic of better days, gleamed under the harsh scrutiny of the setting sun. The humble cardboard box, precariously balanced in her arms, mocked the car's polished perfection. Its worn edges and frayed tape whispered a tale of diminished circumstances. Every step toward the house felt like a struggle, a fight against an invisible weight that transcended the physical weight of the box. Guilt and exhaustion etched lines on her face, mirrored in the muffled whimpers emanating from within. "Rick, honey, try to be quiet," she pleaded, her voice hoarse from countless promises and ignored pleas. The house loomed ahead, a picture of suburban perfection - every carefully placed blade of grass, every splash of color in the manicured flowerbeds a silent rebuke to her own frayed reality. It was a house ripped from the pages of a magazine, and in its harsh, unforgiving light, Janet felt her own rumpled clothes and tired face stand out like a glaring