Erica stirred in bed, eyes opening to gray light pressing through the blinds. No birds. Just wind. Cold, whispering wind that didn’t belong in July.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Michael wasn’t beside her.
She reached out, half-hoping it was a dream, that maybe he’d just gotten up for coffee.
But the sheets were cold.
Downstairs, the kettle clicked off. No footsteps. Just the low hum of surveillance she didn’t know existed — microphones behind the bookshelf, a silent net of motion sensors stitched through the walls.
She pulled on a sweater and descended the stairs barefoot. Her eyes scanned the living room. Leo’s blanket fort was still up. The paper airplane lay tilted on a cushion, one wing torn.
A whisper of unease crept through her.
Michael’s voice came from the back room. Low
