Every Tuesday, Mara comes home to her husband Isaac exhausted and silent. Some evenings there is mud on her shoes, or a wound she will not explain. He has learned not to ask. One evening he follows her instead, across the city into a grand old house, through a door that gives way beneath the century.
What he moves through is not quite memory and not quite time. A war, a gathering of strangers, a slow tide of dust. Somewhere ahead of him, always, is Mara, slipping further from the life they share. In an abandoned farmhouse he finds her coat left on the floor, and beyond an open door.
