It is the seventh day.
The dawn breaks with a painful, blinding clarity, casting a pale, clinical light across the bedroom. The storm has passed, leaving behind a silence so absolute it rings in my ears. The air in the apartment feels entirely different today—thin, brittle, as if the very fabric of the space we have been occupying is beginning to tear at the seams.
I am standing—or rather, hovering—in front of the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. I didn't walk here. I simply found myself drifting toward the glass, pulled by an instinct I can’t quite articulate.
I look at the glass.
I see the reflection of the unmade bed behind me, the tangled white sheets looking like snowdrifts in the early light. I see the pile of Ronan's dark clothes draped haphazardly over the armcha
