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hands had trembled when he held that water-damaged portrait of his late wife. It was a private, painful sight, and it had punctured the bubble of irritation she had spent weeks cultivating. She reminded herself that she liked her life quiet. She liked her tea at exactly eight, her toast lightly browned, and her neighbours firmly on their own side of the fence. She reached for a heavy ceramic mixing bowl on the top shelf, intending to make a batch of scones to distract herself. As she stood on her step stool, reaching with an outstretched arm, a sharp, familiar twinge of sciatica flared in her lower back. It was a cruel reminder of her seventy-two years, a sudden lightning bolt of agony that forced her to gasp. Her grip faltered. The bowl slipped, and in her desperate, uncoordinated attempt to catch it, she overbalanced. Helen didn't fall to the floor, but she hit the edge of the counter hard before twisting awkwardly to land on the sturdy wooden stool. The breath left her lungs in a sharp hiss. For a moment, the world tilted sideways. The bowl shattered on the linoleum, a jagged ceramic explosion that echoed far too loudly in the quiet house. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she whispered, clutching her side. Pain radiated from her ribs, making it difficult to breathe deeply. She sat there, gripping the edge of the counter, waiting for the dizziness to pass. She was fine. She was perfectly capable of getting herself up and cleaning the mess. She just needed a minute. But as the minutes ticked by, the dull ache in her side grew into a sharp, insistent protest every time she tried to shift her weight. Outside, the back door of the neighbouring house creaked open. Robert stepped out, wearing a faded flannel shirt and carrying a watering can. He stopped mid-stride, his head cocking to the side as he heard the faint sound of porcelain hitting the floor through the open window of Helen’s kitchen. He didn't hesitate. He crossed the yard, his boots crunching on the gravel, and tapped lightly on her door. When she didn't answer, he tapped again, harder this time. "Helen? Is everything alright in there?" She winced. She couldn't very well explain that she was currently incapacitated by a ceramic bowl. "I’m quite fine, Robert," she called out, though her voice lacked its usual flinty edge. "Just a small domestic mishap. Go back to your hydrangeas." "You don't sound fine," he replied, his voice muffled by the wood. "Open the door, please." "I am not in the habit of entertaining guests on my kitchen floor." "I’m not a guest. I’m a neighbour who just heard something break. If you don't open the door, I’m going to assume you’ve fallen and I’ll have to call for help. I’d hate to make a scene." Helen sighed, a sound of profound frustration. She gingerly pushed herself off the stool, using the counter for leverage, and limped toward the door. She unlocked it and pulled it open, bracing herself against the frame. Robert stood on the porch, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. He looked at her pale face, then down at the mess of shards scattered across the floor behind her. His expression softened instantly, the defensive posture he usually adopted around her melting away into something far more gentle. "Good grief, Helen," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "Sit down. Let me look at you." "I don't need a nursemaid," she snapped, though the effort of speaking made her grimace. "I’m not a