Oliver staggered home late.
Very late.
He had fallen somewhere along the way.
Didn’t remember where.
But definitely felt it.
In the bathroom, he checked the damage.
A scrape.
Not terrible.
But noticeable.
He looked at the mirror.
Paused.
Thought.
Carefully, very carefully…
he cleaned the wound.
Applied antiseptic.
Added bandages.
He nodded at his reflection.
Problem solved.
His wife, Sophie, was asleep.
Good.
Crisis avoided.
He slipped into bed quietly.
Smiling.
Morning came.
Sophie was already awake.
Standing in the bathroom.
Silent.
Too silent.
Oliver stretched.
Pretended everything was normal.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Sophie didn’t turn around.
“Did you get drunk last night?”
Oliver laughed.
Too fast.
“No.”
Pause.
Sophie slowly turned.
“Really?”
Oliver nodded.
Confident.
“Then…” she said,
“…who cleaned the wound…”
Pause.
“…on the mirror?”
Silence.
Oliver blinked.
Sophie crossed her arms.
“Because,” she added calmly,
“someone disinfected and bandaged the cabinet door.”
Long silence.
Oliver looked toward the bathroom.
Still proud of himself.
Just… less certain.
