The names above the doorbell were printed in faded blue letters: Dario and Mirna. When Hana moved in, Dario explained that his former partner had left and he had never found time to change the plate. Hana offered to order a new one. He said he would deal with it because the entry panel had unusual dimensions. Four months later she was still telling delivery drivers to ignore the second name.
Mirna arrived on Saturday morning carrying a travel bag and two pastries. She unlocked the door with her own key, saw Hana in a dressing gown, and stopped before the bag touched the floor. She did not shout. She asked where Dario was. Hana pointed toward the bathroom, then remembered that he was at work. He had been changing his schedule constantly lately, and she had answered out of habit.
At the kitchen table, between two cups neither had asked for, they compared what they knew. Mirna worked seasonally in another town. She had been with Dario for six years. Hana believed they had separated before she moved in. His messages contained the same photographs of dinner, but different explanations of whose place was empty across the table from him.
Mirna opened the hallway cupboard. Behind the winter coats stood her box of books. Until then, Hana had thought it belonged to his sister. She pulled out a book and recognized a recipe Dario had presented as a family tradition. That small detail hurt her more than the photographs. Even their ordinary evenings carried someone else's signature, while she had been thanking him.
When they called him together, he first asked how they had met. Then he claimed he had been waiting for the right moment. Mirna said she would collect her belongings on Sunday, with a friend. Hana arranged a room at a colleague's home. They did not promise each other friendship or explain how the other should grieve. They only agreed who would take which shelf, so that nobody's belongings ended up in the wrong box.
Hana was the last to leave. At the entrance she removed the paper bearing both names and dropped it into the mailbox. For a moment she considered adding a message. Instead, she called her colleague and asked whether there was a spare hanger for her dressing gown. Only when she heard an ordinary, slightly sleepy "there is" did she begin to cry. Mirna had already gone. There was nobody there for whom she had to appear strong.