An open-house livestream freezes on a grin in the attic window. Keys turn; the smart hub chirps “Welcome, family”… including a name nobody knows. The cut splices suburban polish to rot: flies arranging themselves into words on the nursery pane, a realtor’s drone mapping a room that isn’t on the plans, and a basement wall that exhales cold like the ocean at night.

Doorbell cams catch footsteps that don’t make sound; the baby monitor hums with a lullaby from 3:15 a.m.—every night. A contractor finds a staircase behind a staircase. The HOA group chat becomes a séance.

Light switches blink Morse; the floor plan redraws itself when the power goes out. Sound design gnaws—hive buzz, furnace moans, nail-scrape in the vents—until the blackout lands and the upstairs door opens by itself. Final sting: the SOLD sign flips in windless air to STAY, while attic windows blink like an eye.