The house was asleep. Outside, the world was ink and silence — no sound but the distant hum of the estate's automated climate control, a barely perceptible thrum that only emphasized the profound quiet. Most would be lulled by it, finding solace in its unyielding peace. But I was not most.
Sleep had become a stranger.
Even five weeks of enforced rest hadn't fixed that.
It was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the chest and made every thought echo louder.
A single lamp burned beside me, throwing a soft amber glow across the room. The light barely reached the far corners, leaving everything else in shadow. The bed beside me was untouched, too big, too cold.
The clock struck past two, but I hadn't moved from the chair. I Just sat there — sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned fully, the faint lamplight tracing the healed scar along my ribs, a silent testament to the chaos that had almost taken my life—and hers.
A knock came — gentle, familiar.
