The opening credits now lingered: a slow pan across a house that looked lived-in, not staged. Children's drawings pinned to the fridge; a coffee table scarred with initials carved during a camping trip gone wrong; the wedding photo in the hallway, slightly crooked. The theme song—a jaunty piano line—hinted at the old days, but the camera stayed long enough on those details to suggest history. Everything in Volume 7 carries weight, as if time itself is a recurring character.