Victor didn’t touch it.

Instead, he noticed the machine. Old. Well-used. He recognized the model; his grandmother had owned one like it. He remembered sitting under her table, watching the needle rise and fall while she hummed. The memory struck him with surprising force.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Clara.”

“How old are you, Clara?”

“Ten,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Almost.”

Victor looked at her bandaged wrist. “What happened?”

“The needle slipped,” she replied. “It’s fine.”

He turned toward the other room. “May I?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

The bedroom was dim. A woman lay beneath thin blankets, her face pale, lips cracked. She stirred weakly when Victor entered.