The smell of fresh paint lingered in the hallway, a sharp, chemical scent that masked the underlying smell of old wood and plaster. It was a good smell. It smelled of coverage. It smelled of new layers over old wounds. The wall in the living room was blue now. Not a dark navy, but a soft sky blue, the color of the horizon just before the sun dips below the trees. It was the color of openness. Every time I walked past it, I expected to feel a twinge of anxiety, a phantom sensation of the drill bit biting into the drywall, but the color softened the memory. It was just a wall now. It was just paint.
I stood in the doorway of the living room, holding a mug of coffee. The steam curled into the morning light that streamed through the newly cleaned windows. The house was quiet. Marcus was in hi
