Elena rose on unsteady legs. The thick residual claim inside her shifted with the movement. The lower marks under her sweater ached. She walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs on pure will, the residual tears still wet on her face, and stopped outside the master bedroom door. Soft, uneven breathing carried through the wood. Not footsteps. Not drawers. Just the sound of someone sitting with the full shape after every continuous pressure and heavy silence and ordinary table had failed to make it smaller.

Elena knocked once, lightly.

The breathing on the other side stopped for a second, then resumed.

“It’s me,” Elena said. Her voice was...