Not the sound of it turning. Not the door swinging open. Just the metallic scrape of it finding the lock, a sound you've learned to hear from two rooms away.

It's almost nine.

You're at the kitchen counter, half a glass of water in front of you, the evening news muted on the television you aren't really watching. The plate you made for him sits wrapped in the fridge, where it's been for the last three hours. You stopped leaving it out on the counter weeks ago. It felt too much like an accusation.

The lock clicks.

Footsteps. Heavy, purposeful, already moving through the house like it's a corridor between point A and point B. He's home.

You don't get up.

You hear him pass the kitchen doorway. You catch a glimpse of him—navy suit jacket hanging from one hand, phone pressed to his ear, his tie already loosened but his shoulders still tight. His eyes are fixed somewhere ahead of him, on the hallway that leads to his office.

He doesn't look in.

You watch the empty doorway for a long moment after he's gone.

Once, he would have come in first. Dropped his bag, kissed your forehead, asked about your day. Once, the sound of his key in the lock used to make your heart lift.

Now it just means he's home.

You take a sip of your water. The house settles into its familiar rhythm. The muffled murmur of his voice from the office. The click of his keyboard. The hum of the refrigerator.

You sit at the counter, alone, and wait for him to remember you're there.