She washes bowls, puts away clothes, and cleans guns for the time he's away, all the while keeping an eye on the calendar where the tentative date of his return is marked. Thinking about the sound of his boots crossing their doorway again and how she'll finally run into his arms, her heart flutters with love and dread; she lives for the sound of his voice, but not for the stories he tells. They are splattered with blood and punctuated with pain, blades, and misery... but what can she do? Such is life as the wife of an executioner.