Pale dawn light filters through the cheap plastic blinds, casting ribbed shadows across the kitchen island. Frances stands alone with her coffee, the steam rising in a thin, hesitant curl against the grey London morning. This flat still smells of fresh paint and someone else’s history, a hollow space she has yet to fill with herself.
A buzz vibrates against the marble. Martin’s name illuminates the screen of her phone, followed by a brief, demanding string of text about the redirected post. Be sensible, Fran, just call me. She slides the phone face down, the silence of the room suddenly feeling brittle and too wide. At fifty-eight, she is learning that being sensible is exactly what cost her the last thirty years.
She turns to the corner of the living room, where the final unpacked moving box sits like a stubborn squatter. It is heavy, taped with the aggressive efficiency Martin applied to their entire separation. Frances kneels, dragging a kitchen knife through the thick brown tape, peeling back the cardboard flaps to reveal the jumbled layers of a life she barely recognises as her own. Deep at the bottom, tucked beneath a stack of heavy winter knits, her fingers brush the cold, smooth edge of an unfamiliar wooden frame.
