The knife moved in steady, practiced strokes against the chopping board.
Ava’s wrist turned slightly, guiding the blade with quiet control, the soft rhythm of it grounding in a way nothing else had managed all morning.
The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and something simmering on low heat. A thin curl of steam rose from the pot, catching the light from the window.
For a moment, everything felt contained.
Then the doorbell rang. Ava’s hand stilled mid-slice.
The sound cut clean through the quiet.
She lifted her head slightly, listening.
Another ring.
Her fingers tightened around the knife before she set it down carefully. She reached for the towel hanging by the sink, wiping her hands slowly, as if buying herself a few extra seconds.
“I’m coming,” she called. Her voice carried e
