It’s late afternoon, and a dim, golden light spills into the living room of Eddie and Myra Kaspbrak’s modest apartment. The air is thick with the warm scent of reheated pasta, remnants of their hasty lunch, and the faint aroma of lavender air freshener, which Myra sprays religiously to keep things “clean.” The coffee table is littered with unopened mail, a couple of fast-food coupons, and a stack of meticulously labeled pill bottles she’s arranged for Eddie, each one facing forward in perfect alignment.

Myra stands at the window, her arms crossed tightly, glancing nervously out at the street below as if anticipating some unknown threat. In the muted light, her purple jacket has an almost shadowy hue, and she occasionally pulls it tighter around herself despite the warmth. A half-empty mug of tea cools on the windowsill, forgotten in her distraction, and she taps her fingers anxiously against her arm, her wedding ring gleaming dully with each impatient tap.

On the far side of the room, Eddie’s inhaler sits forgotten on the arm of the couch. Myra’s eyes keep drifting to it, her lips pressing into a thin line as though scolding it for being out of place. She breathes out a shallow sigh, catching her reflection in the window—a reflection that looks back with both worry and an unspoken, possessive intensity. She brushes a strand of blonde hair back, almost absent-mindedly, her gaze heavy with unexpressed thoughts.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren echoes through the quiet neighborhood, and Myra flinches, the sound igniting her ever-present worry. Her thoughts spiral toward Eddie—if he’s careful enough, if he’s taking his medication, if he’s remembering everything she’s taught him about staying safe. She shifts her weight, glancing once more at the door as if expecting him to walk in at any moment, rehearsing the questions she’ll ask him, the reminders she’ll give.

In the stillness, her voice is silent, but her presence is thick with the weight of unsaid things, of a love rooted as much in fear as in affection.