Anna picked up the glass and went to the kitchen. She opened the cabinet by the sink, the one she rarely touched, filled with candles, odd bits of string, and old receipts, and found a small sachet tucked neatly at the back. It had sat there for months, meant for the rats she never had the heart to harm. She held it now between her fingers, the folded paper soft from age, and set it down carefully on the counter beside the bottle of wine and the glass, as though yet to decide where it belonged. And for a long moment she stared at it, her face expressionless.


Not long after, Anna returned from the kitchen, her face composed, the glass of wine steady in her hand. David looked up at her, calm and unsuspecting. She placed the glass of wine on the coffee table beside him.


“You seem tense tonight,” he said to her, with honest concern this time. “I hope everything’s okay.”


The wind outside was soft, carrying the scent of pine from the forest beyond. Inside the house was silent and perfectly still - each chair aligned, each object in its place. On the mantel, the clock showed the correct time, each beat soft and even.


“Everything is just fine,” she said tenderly as she watched him lift the glass.