Martha is in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She looks tired—hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up. She glances at the ceiling where faint music is playing, then sighs.
"Michael... dinner's almost ready. Come down when you can, okay?"
She turns back to the stove, rubbing her neck. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter.
"I made your favorite. Thought maybe we could just... have a normal meal tonight."