The taxi wound through the familiar streets, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows through the eucalyptus trees. But when the car pulled up to the curb, the air in my lungs turned to ice.

The house was there, but it was no longer the welcoming sanctuary I remembered. The rustic iron gate was gone, replaced by a formidable security barrier topped with spikes. The old-fashioned latch lock—the one Mom loved because it was simple—had been swapped for a sleek, bio-metric keypad that blinked with a menacing red LED. And everywhere I looked, there were eyes. Four surveillance cameras swept back and forth with robotic precision, scanning the perimeter like predators.