By the fourth day, we stopped flinching every time the floor creaked.
The days had grown quieter, not because we were less afraid, but because we'd run out of ways to voice it. Fear had softened into background noise, like the hum of the refrigerator or the tick of the wall clock.
Always there.
Easy to tune out until it swelled again.
Chris baked bread that morning.
He found the ingredients in the stocked pantry, surprised himself by remembering the proportions. I watched him work from across the counter, pencil in hand, sketchpad open but largely ignored. His hands were dusted in flour, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed like he was back in the classroom trying to solve a problem with no right answer.
"You've got the posture of someone about to write a manifesto," I said.
He looked up, blinked. "This is serious business, Audra. This is yeast."
"God forbid you disrespect the yeast."
He grinned then.
A real one. Small, but sure.
