She tried to set the table the way she always had. Fork on the left, knife on the right, napkin folded cleanly beneath the plate. It should have been simple—she had done it a thousand times before—but tonight the knife felt wrong in her hand. Too heavy, maybe. Or maybe she had placed it on the wrong side. She stepped back, squinting at the arrangement, as though the silverware might explain itself if she stared hard enough.

The clock ticked in the hallway. Each sound tugged at her nerves, sharp and steady, as if mocking her hesitation.

She smoothed her skirt and tried again, shifting the utensils, then shifting them back, unable to remember which way was proper. Somewhere, a part of her insisted she knew. She had known once. But the thought drifted away before she could grasp it.

Her husband said she was better now. That the doctors had given her a chance at a calmer life, one free of storms. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to feel steady, useful, the way she had when she used to host the church ladies or prepare Sunday dinners.

But now everything slipped. Words caught in her throat, thoughts vanished halfway through. She forgot the names of neighbors she’d spoken to for years. Sometimes she would walk into a room and stop cold, unable to remember why she had entered.

The kettle whistled in the kitchen. She flinched at the sound, heart pounding too fast for such a small thing. Her hands trembled as she laid the last fork, the whistle growing shrill, unbearable.

She pressed her palms to her temples. She wanted to call for her husband, to ask him what to do, but the words felt tangled. She wanted to be a good wife, to make everything neat and right again. Instead, she stood frozen at the table, confused, the sharp whistle filling the house like a scream she couldn’t answer.