What came out was a history of her kitchen, written in grease.
“Have you tried—”
And somewhere beneath the back step, the drain just did its work. Clean, patient, and finally free.
But sometimes, late at night, when the house was quiet and the pipes made their small, secret sounds, Olive would pause. She’d listen to the water running out to the gully, then down into the dark earth—and she’d think: Thank you. I see you now.
