As the foam subsided and the last bubbles whispered into silence, Clara leaned close. The drain, for the first time in weeks, exhaled a clean, neutral breath. No decay. No ghosts of old meals.

Outside, the first star pierced the bruised twilight. The wind resumed its soft argument with the eaves. Clara made herself a cup of tea, using the now-free-flowing tap.

Then, the vinegar.

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