Marco switched on the hallway lamps gradually, easing brightness like dawn. Nothing stirred except his heartbeat. He placed his suitcase by the stairs, too tired to climb, too exhilarated to sleep. The house smelled of his soap and his polish again, not their cologne. He breathed like, not a refugee, but the owner he was.
He checked the rooms carefully. Guest beds half-stripped, drawers yanked open, a scarf left behind. In the kitchen, teacups cooled beside crumbs, and a clock ticked innocently. The pantry sensor that had terrified them winked at him: battery seventy-one percent. He almost laughed, but instead he poured water, steadying shaking hands.