Elena stepped through the front door of her house just after midnight, the latch clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the empty foyer. The exhibition venue still rang in her ears. The polite applause, clinking champagne flutes, the low murmur of wealthy strangers pretending to care about art, but now the house felt hollow, too large, too quiet. She kicked off her high heels one after the other in the middle of the marble floor. The sharp clack-clack-clack of them hitting tile sounded too loud, too lonely.
She padded barefoot into the living room, lights dimmed to a soft amber. Her hands trembled as she reached for the bottle of Bordeaux on the side table. The cork came out with a soft pop. She poured—too fast. Wine sloshed over the rim of the glass and stained the wood.
