He was sitting in his darkened living room, having built a roaring fire that, as it flamed, cast moving shadows on the walls, lending them an air of mystery. He was mindlessly staring into it, but not really seeing anything.

He was sipping a scotch. Brahms was playing on the stereo. Mildred Memory had insinuated herself onto his lap. He was idly scratching and petting her. She was both purring and drooling at the same time.

The weight of the last few weeks was lifting, and as he sat alone in the darkened room, he began to sense that he had come out on the other side. He had eased up on himself. He felt better. He smiled.

After a while, he dislodged Mildred and stood. He continued to watch the diminishing fire. Then he gazed at the familiar room. He turned off the stereo, stepped over to the kitchen, and rinsed out his glass.

After one last glance at the glowing embers, he headed upstairs, with Mildred following hot on his heels.

•   •   •

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