The afternoon settled into the house the way it always did after the midday meal: slowly, with room to breathe. Sunlight angled through the kitchen window in a wide, steady band that warmed the floorboards and caught the dust motes drifting above the counter.
Outside, the side garden was quiet except for the occasional shift of leaves in the light wind. Inside, the only sounds were the soft clink of dishes and the scrape of a cloth across wood.
Clara moved through the kitchen with the same unhurried precision she brought to her ledgers. Every motion had a place. She stacked the washed plates, wiped the table in long even strokes, and set the tomato basket by the door for later. Atlas stayed. He did not ask if she needed help.
