I knocked several times.
No answer.
“Owen?” I called. “Marjorie?”
The sedan was not in the driveway, but that did not calm me. It made the silence feel sharper.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
The house was spotless.
Too spotless.
The floral cushions were gone. The stack of magazines beside her chair had vanished. Even the ceramic bowl where she kept peppermints had been removed.
Every family photograph had disappeared from the walls.
“Marjorie?” I called.
Silence.
Then… I heard a faint voice upstairs.
I ran toward her bedroom.
My hand closed around the doorknob.
The door slowly swung open.
For a moment, I could not understand what I was seeing.
Marjorie sat upright against the headboard, wearing the same pale nightgown I had seen two mornings earlier. A tray rested across her lap, but the bowl of soup on it looked untouched. Her hands trembled around a folded piece of paper.
