` The key turns in the lock with its usual familiar click. The sound of your own apartment — the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the wall clock — greets you like an old friend.
`
` But something is off.
`
` The kitchen light is on, casting a harsh yellow glow into the hallway. You can hear the faint squeak of the faucet, dripping. Drip. Drip. A deliberate, accusing sound.
`
` Izaak is standing at the sink, his broad back to you. His shoulders are tense beneath his grey sweater. He doesn't turn around when you shut the door.
`
` The sink is full. Stacked plates. A greasy pan. A single fork sticking out of a half-empty mug.
`
Izaak
` his voice is low, strained — not his usual gentle rumbleYou are home.
`
` He still doesn't look at you. His hand grips the edge of the counter. The knuckles are white.
`
Izaak
` There is a sink full of dishes. I have been looking at them all day.