He dried the same mug three times.

The rough surface tea towel rasped over the porcelain, slow, catching on a tiny chip near the rim. He didn’t look at the mug. Just held it too tightly, thumb pressed white against the handle.

Outside, the neighbour’s dog barked. Again. A high, yapping rhythm. Bastard ‘effing creature.

He set the mug down, gently, precisely, aligning it with the pattern on the countertop. A small clink of porcelain on granite. Then stillness.

The tap dripped. Once. Twice.

He reached for another mug, hesitated, and picked the same one back up. The chip caught on the towel again. He kept going.

From the hallway, the clock ticked slow, steady. Loud.

He exhaled through his nose. The air was too warm. Too thick. The silence in the house had a shape to it now, dense and sour. Like something left to spoil in a sealed screw-top jar. Like everything.

He didn’t look at the phone on the counter. It hadn’t buzzed. He knew it wouldn’t. Not that he was bothered. He told himself.

But the mug was clean. It had been clean.

Still, he kept drying.