EPISODE 2 — What She Learned to Swallow

Rosie learned quickly that the house sounded different in daylight.

Less heavy.

Less watchful.

Almost ordinary.

That helped her breathe.

Durin left early that morning, already irritated, already distant. He kissed her cheek mechanically at the door—his version of kindness—and she smiled when he did it. A soft, quick smile. The kind that didn’t ask for anything back.

When the door shut, the smile stayed a second longer.

Then it fell.

She stood there for a long time, keys still in her hand, listening to the silence. The house did nothing. No sounds. No warmth. No strange shifts.

Good, she thought.

Good. I imagined everything.

She cleaned.

Cleaning always helped. It gave her hands something to do while her thoughts stayed quiet. She wiped surfaces that were already clean. Rearranged boxes she had already unpacked.

When her phone buzzed, her stomach tightened.

Durin’s name.

She answered immediately.

“Where’s my grey shirt?” he asked.

“In the suitcase. The left one.”

“I checked. It’s not there.”

Her heart began to race. “I’ll look again.”

“You always say that.”

“I will,” she said softly. “I promise.”

He hung up.

She found the shirt exactly where she’d said it was.

She folded it carefully. Smoothed the creases. Practised the smile she’d wear when she handed it to him later.

He came home earlier than expected.

She heard his footsteps before she heard his voice. The sound alone made her shoulders draw in.

“Why didn’t you answer my messages?” he snapped.

“I was in the shower,” she said, holding the shirt out to him. “Look, it was—”

He slapped her.

Not hard enough to knock her down.

Hard enough to sting.

Hard enough to hum in her ears.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t speak.

She just stood there, eyes wide, hand still holding the shirt between them.

For a moment, Durin looked surprised. Not guilty. Just… inconvenienced.

“Don’t stand there like that,” he muttered. “You make things worse.”

He took the shirt and walked away.

Rosie stayed where she was.

Her cheek burned. Her throat felt tight, like something was lodged there but refused to come out. Tears gathered—but she blinked them back immediately.

Crying made him angry.

She learned that early.

She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, pressed a cold cloth to her skin. In the mirror,

she smiled.

A small one.

Convincing.

When she stepped out, Durin was already on his phone, laughing softly. Not with her. Never with her.

She passed him quietly.

“I made tea,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

That night, she lay on the bed facing the wall.

Durin slept quickly. He always did. Like a man who had nothing chasing him.