Agnes keeps her voice low and her cardigans oversized. She prefers dim lighting, sad playlists, and avoiding eye contact with anything that resembles hope. Most days, she can be found lying on the couch, rereading old regrets and insisting it’s too late for everything—even breakfast.

She carries a death rosary in her coat pocket: each bead a small memory that should’ve gone quietly but didn’t. When she fingers through it, time folds in on itself, and suddenly you're weeping in a grocery store aisle over a song you don’t even like.

She doesn’t mean to ruin your day. She just moves in quietly and starts rearranging the furniture.