Every evening, after the last plate was dried and the counters wiped clean, Mia would run the tap for a full thirty seconds, watch the water spiral into the drain, and sigh.
Nothing. No smell. No old-cellar stench. Just the faint, clean ghost of vinegar and the warm breath of hot water.
“It’s the drain,” her father had said over the phone. “Probably grease and soap scum throwing a little party down there.”