Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKARA767T88VAPWQQ96SFXB

Rain stitched the harbor in silver, needles threading night's hush. Sirens braided distant streets, then strangled themselves into uneasy silence. Detective Mora unlocked Harrow House, rust scraping like reluctant matches. The foyer smelled of lilies disguising something heavier, recently disturbed. Footprints glittered wetly across marble, a hesitant choreography towards darkness. On the staircase landing, a pocketwatch ticked without a wrist. Mora clicked her pen, the sound defiant against layered quiet. He lay beneath the portrait, eyes open, considering nothing now. Blood made a slow compass, pointing north, pointing somewhere upstairs. The portrait's subject, his grandmother, watched sternly, hands forever folded. In her painted lap, an identical pocketwatch glittered like testimony. Lightning pasted windowpanes white; shadows flinched and rearranged their alibis. A neighbor knocked once, stopped, then whispered apologies to nobody. Mora knelt, noticing varnish under nails, and lily pollen streaks. Upstairs, a music box chimed two notes, then reconsidered breathing. The phone still dangled, swinging softly, confessing to no one. On the table, invitations promised charity; the knife promised accuracy. Rain gathered courage outside; inside, secrets arranged careful disguises slowly. Mora tallied rhythms: ticking watch, fading sirens, steady heartbeat, motive. Somewhere deeper, a lock sighed, as though finally remembering mouths.