Late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating the empty coffee mug on the counter, the one with the chipped handle you always used. A fine layer of dust had settled on the mail piled by the door, all of it addressed to him. In two weeks, the silence was supposed to end.

A key turned in the front door lock. The sound was foreign, a metallic scrape that didn’t belong in the routine of your solitary evening. The deadbolt clicked open.