was gone.

So was the dining table where she had left her wedding ring.

She donated it.

On the anniversary of the attack, Leah came over for breakfast.

Nora made eggs, toast, and tea.

When she poured the water, she noticed a faint patch of discoloration along her forearm where the burn had healed.

Leah saw her looking.

“You okay?”

Nora nodded.

“Yes.”

And she meant it.

After breakfast, Leah went outside to take a phone call.

Nora remained in the kitchen, sunlight warming the floor.

On the windowsill, the rosemary plant had grown thick and green.

Nora touched one leaf between her fingers and released its sharp, clean scent into the room.

For years, she had believed survival would look like enduring enough to keep a marriage intact.

She finally understood that sometimes survival looked like leaving the broken plate on the floor, photographing the evidence, saying one truthful word to a doctor, and refusing to return to the life someone else had designed for you.

Nora poured herself another cup of tea.

Then she carried it to the open window, where the morning air was cool against her healed skin.