He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow, rhythmic breaths of his wife beside him. His mind was turning over possibilities, refining details, weighing outcomes. By dawn, he had everything he needed: a clear head, an early start, and a simple plan rooted in common sense and poetic justice.
He dressed quietly and sipped his coffee on the porch, watching the mist roll low over the fields. The flowerbed remained crushed. The pink forget-me-nots now looked like damp tissue in the mud.