Today, around 11:00 AM, Clara returned home after a 4-month business trip.

Hot. Violent.

Clara dropped the sheet as if it burned her. She took a step back, then another. Her breathing became ragged. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t screaming. It was worse. It was that kind of silence that comes before something breaks.

Turn.

He left the room.

She walked to the living room without looking back. Each step was firmer, heavier. The house, so tidy just a few minutes ago, now seemed like a well-arranged lie.

He looked around.

Her eyes were fixed on the broom, leaning against the wall.

She went straight to her.

She took it.