The Turned Key and Welcoming Glow
The door opened. Familiar warmth washed over us—lemon-scented polish, homey comfort. The entry light glowed softly. That light, that scent, that key settling into place—a silent balm. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the calm. Closing her swollen eyes briefly, she reopened them—the storm of fear receding, replaced by weary peace. Kitchen lights switched on. He guided her to the table.
Belated Supper and a Wordless Table
"Hungry? I’ll fix something warm," he said softly. She shook her head, eyes trailing him as he moved to the kitchen. He returned with two mugs of hot milk and peanut-butter toast. Sitting beside her, he offered a slice. She took it, nibbling mechanically. He held his own toast untouched, watching her profile. In the soft living-room light, the bandage glared—a stark reminder of the night’s ordeal.
Unhealed Wound and Silent Vigil
As she ate, her gaze drifted to that wound, shadows of dread lingering. She barely touched her milk. Exhausted, eyelids drooping, she leaned into him, shoulder against his arm—her anchor. He didn’t press her, just sat quietly, brushing stray hairs from her cheek. Night deepened. "A-Wen," he whispered, "take a hot shower. Relax. You’re soaked."
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