The clock on the dashboard of my old sedan flickered to 11:42 PM. Sixteen hours. I had been on my feet for sixteen hours, navigating the relentless chaos of the hospital wards, the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the weight of a thousand decisions. My back wasn’t just aching; it felt like a structural failure. As I pulled into the driveway, the house was dark, save for a single, warm amber glow emanating from the kitchen window.

I sat in the car for a full minute, staring at the steering wheel. My hands were stiff. All I wanted—all I truly craved—was to dissolve into the mattress and wake up in a different decade. I dragged my bag from the passenger seat, the strap digging into my shoulder like a blunt blade, and trudged toward the front door.

The lock clicked. The house was silent, but it wasn’t empty. It felt inhabited by a quiet, watchful peace. As I kicked off my shoes by the door, the scent hit me. It wasn’t the scent of a Michelin-star kitchen or a complex herb garden. It was the heavy, salt-laced, nostalgic aroma of processed cheese and browned meat.

I walked into the kitchen, and there she was. My wife, Sarah, was leaning against the counter, a book in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. She looked up, her eyes softening as they landed on my haggard face.

“You look like you’ve been through a war,” she said softly, setting her mug down.