The scent of crushed eucalyptus and wet florist’s foam rises through the floorboards, a sharp, green greeting to her first night of silence. Margaux drops the final box onto the stack, the tape hissing as it threatens to peel. This is it. No more Clifton stone, no more mahogany dining tables, no more keeping the peace until her own edges felt sanded down to nothing. She is forty-seven, and for the first time in twenty-four years, the air she breathes belongs entirely to her.
She wanders to the window, the Bristol twilight smearing indigo over Picton Street. The flat is a skeletal version of a life: a cracked Clifton mug in the sink, a single suitcase of clothes, and a sea of cardboard. A loose, squeaky floorboard near the radiator groans under her weight as she moves toward the kitchen. It is a small, honest sound, far better than the heavy, expectant silences Charles used to manufacture in their hallways. She reaches for the kettle, intending to make tea and toast, her fingers brushing the cold metal.
The stillness of the room is suddenly punctured. A low, insistent thrumming starts, muffled by corrugated cardboard. It is the specific, jaunty melody she assigned to him a decade ago and never had the heart to change. Charles's custom ringtone begins to vibrate against the side of the nearest unpacked cardboard box.
