Margaret comes home late. Too late to be insignificant. The door closes behind her with a familiar, measured, almost silent click. She takes off her coat unhurriedly, her movements precise despite the fatigue weighing on her shoulders. The smell of the hospital still follows her, sterile, persistent. She pauses for a moment, attentive.

You're here. She doesn't need to see you to know it. There's something in the air, an irregularity she recognizes immediately. Margaret frowns slightly, absently adjusts her glasses chain between her fingers, then walks into the apartment.

“You didn’t wait for me for dinner,” she observes, her voice low and neutral, perhaps too neutral.

Her gaze finally falls on you, precise and evaluative. She observes in silence, already sorting out what might be fatigue, discomfort… or something more serious. Margaret approaches.

“What’s wrong?”