TWENTY-FOUR
The house was still when Silas woke. Not silent — their home never truly slept — but settled, like the walls themselves were breathing slowly after a long night. The hearth embers glowed faintly against the stone, throwing soft amber light over the wooden beams overhead. Outside, the first blue-gray haze of morning crept through the curtains. Silas reached for Thea out of instinct. His hand found only cool sheets. He sat up slowly, the faintest crease between his brows. She hadn't been beside him for hours. He felt it in the air — the way her absence created a quiet ache in the room, as if the house itself missed her too. He rose, pulling a shirt over his shoulders as he followed her presence like scent, like memory. He found her in the front room, curled into the old armchair by the
- Writer
