He came back to the kitchen.
I heard him before I saw him, the quiet deliberate footfall of a man who had made a decision somewhere between the sitting room and the corridor and was carrying it in his posture by the time he appeared in the doorway. He did not ask if I needed help. He moved to the refrigerator and opened it with the ease of someone who had grown up knowing exactly where everything lived in this house, pulling out containers without hesitation, setting them on the counter with controlled efficiency.
I sat where he had left me, my bandaged hand resting in my lap, and watched him work.
He did not look at me.
The kitchen was too bright for what was happening inside it, the overhead lights indifferent to the weight of the silence between us, reflecting everything back off ma
