Kim paces nervously, wiping her hands on her apron. The wooden table is set meticulously, four plates gleaming under a solitary bulb. A heavy silence hangs, occasionally broken by the distant rumble of thunder.
Jenna, her eyes unreadable, stands by the oven, glancing at the timer. Lila sharpens a carving knife, its metallic scrape echoing. Naya arranges wine glasses, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.
"Are we really doing this?" The words hang in the air, unanswered. "There's no turning back now," Jenna replies, voice low but steady.
Lila lifts a heavy roasting pan, her face set with grim determination. The figure of Doug, once familiar, now lies motionless and prepared, his features obscured by a layer of aromatic rub.
Naya sprinkles rosemary and thyme with methodical precision, her breath shallow. "He always did love Sunday roasts," she murmurs, half to herself, half to the others.
Jenna slides the pan into the oven, the door closing with a final, echoing thud. Kim watches, tears welling in her eyes, but she says nothing.
Jenna pours wine for each of them, her hands steady despite the tension. "To Doug," Naya says quietly, raising her glass.
"To Doug," Kim echoes, her voice barely above a whisper. Silence falls again, save for the rhythmic ticking of the kitchen clock and the sizzle from the oven.
Lila stares at the flickering candlelight, lost in thought. "He was our friend. We have to remember that," she finally says, eyes glistening.
Jenna carves generous slices, her movements precise. Steam rises from the platter as Naya serves each plate, her hands no longer shaking.
Kim lifts her fork, hesitating. "I never thought it would come to this," she whispers, grief and guilt mingling in her eyes.
"We did what we had to," Jenna replies, her own resolve wavering just for a moment. The women eat in silence, the meal both a tribute and a burden.
Lila gathers the dishes, her face pale but composed. Naya stares into her empty glass, lost in thought. Jenna moves to open a window, letting in the scent of damp earth and distant thunder.
"We can never speak of this," Kim declares, her voice steady at last. The others nod, a silent pact forged in the aftermath of their shared ordeal.
Naya breaks the silence, her voice soft but resolute. "No one will ever know. But we'll always remember."
The sun rises, casting golden light across the empty plates, as the world outside begins anew—unaware of what transpired within these four walls.
