We enter the kitchen holding hands and are greeted by the scent of food cooking. “That’s weird,” he says. “I can smell rosemary roast potatoes.”
“It’s just your imagination,” I assure him, but I can smell it, too, the sensation causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I squeeze his hand before letting go to grab my camera. Dishes and utensils are scattered across the work surfaces, as if someone was in the middle of preparing a meal when they just...what, vanished? I wonder if Bill is wondering the same thing: what happened to these people?