Ethan brought her home on a bright afternoon that made the front porch look almost too normal.
The mailbox was slightly crooked.
A neighbor had stuck a small American flag in the porch planter after Memorial Day, and it fluttered lightly whenever cars passed.
Inside, the house smelled like laundry detergent, coffee, and the soup Ethan had made because he wanted her to eat something warm.
For the first few days, Mallory moved through the rooms like a guest in her own life.
She slept on the couch because the stairs exhausted her.
She kept the discharge folder on the side table with medication instructions, follow-up appointments, billing paperwork, and notes Ethan had written in careful block letters.
Her family did not call.
Not the first week.
Not the second.
Not to apologize.
Not to lie.
Not even to pretend.
Then, one month after she came home, her phone buzzed while she sat at the kitchen table in her oldest hoodie.
