Through the window, she saw David, moving quietly around the room, a glass of wine in hand, studying the space as though it were a puzzle only he could solve. He shifted small ornaments, placing some into boxes and replacing them with others that were not hers. Each movement was careful, deliberate, almost graceful. Then he went to the painting from their honeymoon - the sea and­ cliffs she had loved. He lifted it down with slow care, set it against the table, and, after a brief pause, drew a knife from his pocket. The blade slipped cleanly through the centre of the canvas,­ once, then again and again, until it was torn in two, then shredded further into hanging strips that swayed faintly in the still air. When he was done, he rehung it, stepped back, and looked at it calmly, as though admiring a finished work.


Anna stood outside, motionless, her mind struggling to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. The air around her felt suddenly still, weighted with a realization she wasn’t ready to name. She waited outside to gather her thoughts, letting David settle into his armchair and return to his wine. Taking a moment, she drew a quick breath and went inside, determined not to falter.


She entered calmly, smiling faintly, her pulse quickening but saying nothing. David looked up, surprised.


“Anna! You’re home early.”


“Yes,” she said evenly. “The film was cancelled.”


He nodded. “Shame. Did you get your earring fixed?”


“I did.” She looked at the armchair, now angled differently than before. “Did you move that?”


He followed her gaze, surprised. “No, honey. You did, remember? You wanted it closer to the fire. I even helped you move it.”


She studied his face, calm and sure. “Right,” she said softly. “Yes… Perhaps I did.”


Anna gazed blankly at the wall. The painting hung there, her sea, her cliffs, now just strips of canvas drooping against their frame. Yet her voice, when it came, was steady.


“What happened to this?” she said calmly.


David blinked, surprised. “Anna,” he said softly, as if soothing a child. “You did this. Last night. I came down when I heard the noise. You said it didn’t look right.”


She looked around the room. The ornaments she didn’t recognise - the porcelain figure, the little brass clock. “These,” she said, pointing. “I’ve never seen them before.”


His face didn’t change. “They’ve always been here, honey,” he said simply. “Go have a bath. You must be tired again.”


Anna nodded, the motion small, mechanical.


“No - let's have an early dinner. Let me fill your glass.” She spoke with a touch of cheer, though it was forced.