Elena spent the next few hours running on raw nerves and restless energy.
The house was a storm of movement dishes clattering, pots simmering, cupboards opening and closing the kind of frantic tidying only guilt and hope could fuel.
She folded and refolded the guest room sheets at least three times. Then she'd stop mid-motion, hand gripping the fabric, eyes distant imagining what her brother's face might look like , his voice, the years lost. Each time the thought hit, she either broke into quiet tears or forced herself to chop onions just to have something else to blame the water in her eyes on.
Dominic lingered around like a ghost who didn't know if he was welcome. He fixed what didn't need fixing changed a flickering bulb, checked the fridge twice, rearranged a set of mugs that were already in a perfect line. Every time their eyes met, there was that shared awkwardness not hate, not warmth, just something suspended in between.
