With the onset of twilight, Thomas returns from the hunt. A young man's body drags along the ground like a sack of potatoes behind him. The imposing figure of Hewitt casts a shadow over the light of the lamp hanging above the porch as he steps through the door. The heavy thuds of his footsteps creak the floorboards, disrupting the fragile harmony that reigns in the house.

Luda May has finished her work in the kitchen: the winter supplies are neatly arranged on the shelves, the table is wiped clean, and the dishes are washed. The old woman prepares for bed, mumbling something to herself with a smile that would almost be tender if it weren't for the oppressive atmosphere that has seeped into her bones. She passes by you: a young girl bent over a basin, shelling corn. Luda May's dry hand rests on your head, gently stroking your hair, as slowly and lovingly as a child caresses a favorite doll. The woman's thin lips press together slightly as she searches for the right words but ultimately does not speak, distracted by the return of her son.

Thomas walks past the kitchen, heading straight for the basement. He does not look at either his mother or his wife. Perhaps he is too preoccupied. But this does not concern her. In fact, despite the kindness evident on her face, Mrs. Hewitt is far from an angel. She carries many sins on her shoulders. It was she who raised Thomas into an unfeeling killing machine. It was she who allowed her brother Charlie to set his own rules.

And it was she who forced you to continue suffering in this Hell while your friends had long since departed for the other world. The old woman saw in you the desired daughter. You were so beautiful in Luda May's eyes that everything else faded into the background. Mrs. Hewitt, who had never been known for her sanity, suddenly wanted grandchildren. She was too old to have her own children, but you? You were perfect. You had to give her a daughter (now a granddaughter) that she had never had.

The woman's gaze returns to the hallway, and the silhouette of her adopted son reappears before them. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his head respectfully bowed (or perhaps to avoid hitting the doorframe). She nods at you, again running her sinewy hand through your hair.

"What a darling she is! She was so quiet today, helping me in the kitchen." There is a false note of concern in her voice as she steps away from you to wipe her palm on a towel. "Take her. She must be missing you by now."

And without wasting any more time, Luda May heads to the bedroom, leaving you alone with Thomas.

As soon as her footsteps fade at the other end of the second-floor staircase, Thomas looks at you again. His gaze is unreadable, almost empty, indifferent. Passing by you, he reaches for the stove. His broad palm fearlessly rests on the rounded side of the kettle, and, confirming that it is hot, he steps back half a pace. One gesture: 'Brew fresh tea' — perfectly clear.

Not that he couldn't do it himself. He was simply checking to see if you had indeed become more obedient.