The smell of bleach had always been the scent of a fresh start.

When he got home, he didn't just mop; he reclaimed. He scrubbed the floors until they gleamed like bone. He wiped down the baseboards, the door handles, and the windowsills. As the sharp, sterile sting of the chlorine filled the air, the memories of the shouting and the silence seemed to dissolve.

He reached the checkout. The teenager behind the register scanned the bottle with a bored "Beep." "Cleaning tonight?" the kid asked, not looking up.

By dawn, the house didn't smell like her perfume or his resentment anymore. It smelled like nothing. It was a blank page, cold and bright, waiting for a new story to be written on it.

Arthur stood in the cleaning aisle of the 24-hour supermarket, his cart rattling with a single, heavy plastic jug. To anyone else, it was a mundane chore. To Arthur, it was the final step in a very long week.