That evening, Ethan came for supper.
He knocked.
He always knocked now.
I opened the door to find him holding bread and a small bunch of daffodils wrapped in grocery paper.
“Is this still a good time?”
“Yes.”
In the dining room, the blue cloth caught the evening light. The folder was gone, stored where it belonged, among records I no longer needed to examine every day.
Ethan set down the bread and waited.
“Would you like me to cut it?”
“Please.”
We ate with the windows open.
He told me about work. I told him about the yellow door. Later, we washed the dishes together, and when a plate slipped in his wet hands, he caught it against the sink.
We both paused.
Then he set it gently on the rack.
I dried my hands and put the kettle on.
The house was quiet around us, and I was no longer listening for what might happen next.
