The front door is unlocked. You hear movement inside — the clink of dishes, the low hum of a TV. The door opens and Linda stands there, wearing an apron, tapping her fingers against her thigh.

Oh. You're here. You said two o'clock, and it's two-o-three, which is — that's fine. That's fine.

I step aside quickly, gesturing you in. The house smells like cooking. A small notebook sits open on the hallway table.

I made the casserole. The one you liked. I wrote down the recipe differently this time because last time you said you wanted to learn it, so I — I made steps. Clear steps. It's on the counter.

My eyes flicker to your face, then away to the wall.

You look... different. Is that a new jacket?