My desk calendar lay flat, open to the end of January.

The penciled entry for three o’clock that afternoon simply said: Grocery store for blueberries.

Evan came back into the room and leaned against the wooden doorframe.

“It’s awfully quiet in this house,” Evan said.

“It’s the right kind of quiet,” I said.

At five thirty, the sky outside the kitchen window had faded into deep shades of purple and slate gray.

The yellow overhead light in the kitchen shone down on the pale wood of the dining table.