The faint clink of a plate snapped me back.
I hadn't realized I'd been staring at the sink for minutes, hands still under the running water. The sound of ceramic against metal was enough to pull me out of whatever corner of my head I'd wandered into.
I shut the tap off and exhaled.
The house felt too still. Too quiet.
I dried my hands with the towel by the counter, set it back neatly, and leaned there for a while. The dishes were supposed to take my mind off things, but all they really did was give me more time to think.
About the conversation with Trent. About the silence that waited upstairs. About everything I still hadn't said.
I sighed and grabbed the last glass, rinsing it slowly. The faint hum of the dishwasher filled the background, steady, unbothered.
When I was done, I turned off the lights downstairs and started up the stairs — slow steps, one at a time.
