The sun wriggled itself through the closed shutters, drawing thin lines on the wooden floors, shimmering shapes on the wall. The bed was unfamiliar. Martha was alone, her body floating between the sheets, disoriented and out of time. Where was she again? Why was Paul not in the bed with her? She took a deep breath, eyes still closed. The warm smell of coffee drifted into the room. She smiled, and still lying on the bed, pictured Paul, in the kitchen downstairs, with the breakfast table laid, waiting for her. And then she remembered. Emma the new helper was downstairs, preparing breakfast for the guests. Paul was sleeping, on a narrow bed by her side, breathing gently, as if everything was normal. Soon the nurse would knock on the door, to help Paul get ready, like she had done every day since the accident.

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