The days that followed stayed quiet.
Atlas fixed the last of the porch boards. He worked methodically, driving each nail flush, sanding the rough edges until the wood felt even under his palm. Eli oiled the gate until the hinges moved without complaint.
She wiped the excess oil from the metal with a rag, tested the swing twice, and nodded once to herself before moving on to the next chore. Clara closed the monthly accounts and began the next ledger with the same clean hand.
Columns of numbers marched down the page in her precise script. Lara saw patients, checked dosages, and once, between appointments, pressed Atlas against the wall of the clinic hallway and kissed him until both of them were breathing harder than the work required.
Then she stepped away and called the next name on the list as if nothing had interrupted the ordinary rhythm of the day.
