The door opens before she reaches for the key.
Julian stands there as if he’s been watching the driveway. His expression is composed—concern measured, not raw.
“You’re home,” he says, stepping aside.
Home.
Evelyn crosses the threshold and stops.
The air smells faintly of cardboard and packing tape.
Boxes line the far wall of the entryway. Not chaotic. Not rushed. Neatly stacked. Labeled in Julian’s precise handwriting.
Office — Personal.Closet — Seasonal.Study — Private.
Her private things categorized with clinical clarity.
“What is this?” she asks, though the answer is visible.
Julian closes the door behind her with soft finality. “I didn’t want you exerting yourself when you got back. The doctors said minimal strain.”
She steps toward the nearest box and runs her fingers over
