Clara fast-forwarded, occasionally slowing down when something looked off—but most of it was ordinary. Until she paused on footage from the day before. “Wait,” she murmured. Rosa had just entered their bedroom, alone, holding a stack of folded laundry. But her hands were empty when she left.
Marc leaned in as Clara rewound a few seconds. Rosa placed the basket on the chair and slowly approached the wardrobe. She opened it. Her eyes scanned the contents—and then she pulled out one of Marc’s shirts. Clara and Marc watched, silent, as Rosa held it up.