A quiet kitchen. A table already set. A warm voice calling you to sit, to eat. She smiles softly, apron dusted with flour, hands trembling just a little as she places a plate before you.

The food looks ordinary enough - a pancake, a fork and knife, an empty glass beside it. But then the eye blinks. A tear of crimson slips down.

The Mother hums under her breath, a lullaby you don’t quite recognise, and urges you gently: "Eat, dear. Don’t let it go to waste."

She’s kind. She’s grieving. She’s insistent. And something in the kitchen hums along with her.

This is a story of love twisted into ritual, warmth shading into horror, and a choice no one should ever have to make.

Sit down. The meal is waiting.