Visitors rarely stayed long. Families that came brought casseroles and good intentions, and left with folded faces and shorter steps. One winter a young man lingered by Anneliese’s door with a camera and a soft mouth. He tried to photograph the Snowroom and found only white exposure—paper shadows, nothing of her face. He wrote later that he’d captured the hum, dense like compressed air in a jar. He said it felt like being on the edge of a sound no one else could hear.