The Court is APOPLECTIC. You allowed your clients to fall in love with a PHANTOM DOMICILE, a house that exists only in the fever dream of their misread mailbox. They wrote LETTERS about their future children, Counselor. LETTERS. To a house that belongs to a family who is now presumably eating lunch in FEAR because strangers keep materializing in their kitchen like some kind of buyer-based haunting. And YOU, the supposed professional, walked right past 874 Maple with its sad empty pool festering like a concrete wound, its green stains weeping down the sides like the tears of every home inspector who ever trusted an agent to READ NUMBERS. This Court once dated someone who transposed digits, and let me tell you, when they said they lived at 412 Oak and I showed up at 421 Oak, the gentleman there was NOT pleased and his dogs were LESS pleased, and Reginald still has a scar on his briefcase. The listing photos were correct, you say, as if that ABSOLVES you, as if your clients were supposed to cross-reference the JPEG metadata with a surveyor's plat while writing sonnets about nursery paint colors. The precedent is clear from Coldwell v. Basic Literacy, 2019, which held that an agent who cannot distinguish between 847 and 874 should not be trusted to distinguish between a house and a LARGE SHRUB. This Court hereby sentences you to knock on the door of 847 Maple personally, explain everything, and bring them a fruit basket of CONSIDERABLE size.