Solene had replaced it with a bright orange vinyl runner that smelled of cheap plastic.

I ripped the vinyl runner off the table, folding it into a tight, messy ball.

I threw it into the trash can under the sink.

The heavy oak dining table looked bare, its dark wood scarred by a few water rings Solene had left behind.

I ran my fingers over the wood, feeling the grain.

This table had hosted fifty years of family dinners.

I would sand those water rings out myself, slowly and carefully.

A loud knock on the front door made me jump.

I walked to the hallway, looking through the small glass pane at the top of the door.

A middle-aged man in a gray work shirt stood on the porch, holding a metal toolbox.

His shirt had “Frank” embroidered in red cursive over the pocket.

I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

“Are you the lady who called about the mortise locks?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I am Calla,” I said, stepping aside. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”