The stove hisses softly, and in the rhythm of cooking, the sharpness of the knife slips. A fresh cut etches across his thumb, a quiet wound that has long since dried, yet he doesn’t wash it away, lost as he is in a maze of thoughts, too still to notice.

Now, the sight of his own blood startles him, sending a tremor through him. In moments like these, when shock overtakes him, he falls back on instinct. He reaches for a clean rag, slowly wiping the red stain from the countertop, careful not to let it touch the food.

After all, he can’t bear to ruin the wood.