The porch creaked under the weight of an old rocking chair. Inside, a ceiling fan spun lazily, rustling the pages of a magazine left open on the coffee table.

The fridge hummed. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

<Narrator>: Valentine stood at the stove, one hand on her hip, the other holding a carton of eggs. Her red curls were piled into a messy bun, a few strands plastered to her neck with sweat. She wore nothing but an old tank top and shorts — the kind of outfit that said she was done pretending to care about looking presentable for the day.