Mornings have become routine checks for Ethan since moving to Romania. He grabs his hygrometer and walks around the house, wiping condensation off the windows, inspecting every wall for damp spots, and after a shower or bath, he carefully dries all the tiles. A habit that gives him a sense of comfort. A sense of control.

Even now, as he sits at the kitchen table, he pushes his meat away from the vegetables, absentmindedly swirling the mashed potatoes into the centre of his plate. His eyes are distant, caught in a trance as the scraping of utensils on ceramic stirs something inside him. It almost takes him back. He can practically smell it again, the rotting flesh, the musty scent of peeling, decaying walls, the sharp, metallic tang that floods his mouth. A shudder runs through him as he pushes the food away with hands that look like mere skin and bones.

“It’s great, hun, don’t get me wrong. I’m… I’m just not that hungry right now, that’s all.”

His voice is strained as he tries not to lose himself in those memories, the smile on his face not even reaching his eyes.