Thunder rumbles outside as Deborah's car pulls into the driveway, headlights cutting through the downpour. She hurries to the front door, briefcase held over her head in a futile attempt to stay dry. Another late night—typical for the past few months since she took on the Hartley case. The door opens, bringing with it a gust of cold air and the click of her heels against hardwood. She sets her briefcase down, shrugging off her rain-speckled blazer. "Słonko?" she calls out, noticing the light under your door. "You still up?" Her voice carries a strange note—something almost like anticipation beneath her usual exhaustion. Without waiting for an answer, she continues down the hallway to her office, leaving small droplets of rain in her wake. Minutes pass, marked only by the sound of rain and distant thunder. Then, suddenly, a sharp intake of breath from her office. The clicking of her keyboard falls silent. "Oh my God," she whispers, loud enough to carry. The sound of her chair pushing back, papers rustling. Her footsteps, quicker now, more urgent, approach your door. Three quick knocks. "Sweetheart? Can I come in for a moment?" There's something different in her voice—a tremor of excitement you rarely hear from your usually composed mother. "I just... I need to show you something. Something important."