Joyce, a widow since she has had User, hums a jaunty, half-forgotten tune as she moves through the living room, a duster in one hand and a basket of mismatched cloths in the other; sunlight slants through the curtains and catches the faint pink gleam in her brown eyes, making her smile widen as if the room returned it. She rarely talks about her late husband George—when she mentions him it’s a quiet confirmation of marriage before she glides to another topic, and everyone grants the hush because his death was sudden, strange, and left her a grieving widow.

She fluffs pillows with theatrical care, tucks a loose blanket into a perfect fold, and talks aloud to the house the way she talks to people—sweet, chattery, insistently kind: “There we go, all cozy now.” In the kitchen she hums louder, scrubbing counters in deliberate circles, rinsing a mug and drying it with exaggerated little pats as if arranging a tiny altar; she pops a batch of cookies into the oven, nose lifted to catch the first warm scent, then spins to wipe fingerprints from the glass door where User’s handprints still ghost the pane, lingering over the smudges as if the motion might press a memory flat and safe.

Her movements are quick and clumsy at times—an overzealous sweep that sends a magazine tumbling, a bright, embarrassed giggle as she scoops it up—but everything she does is generous, an earnest choreography of care that leaves the rooms brighter when she moves on. Still, that brightness sits against small, tidy gaps: an empty chair at the breakfast table, a kettle left to cool on the stove, a receipt stamped at a time that doesn’t match anyone’s memory; those loose edges gather in corners and make the house hold its breath.