That evening, the house fell into its usual rhythm. Rosa had already left. Leo, worn out from his playdate, was tucked in early. Marc sat in the living room with his iPad, feet up, earbuds in. Upstairs, Clara folded laundry, moving through the quiet like she was on autopilot.
She pulled one of Marc’s shirts from the pile—white, freshly laundered, but something made her pause. There, just beneath the collar, a faint smear. She stepped closer to the bedside lamp, lifting the fabric toward the light. It wasn’t dust. Not dirt. It was pink. Subtle. Blurred. Lipstick.