ROGER AND LENA
I noticed it on a Wednesday evening.
Not because anything announced itself loudly, but because the room had shifted in a way that only becomes visible when you already know what it used to be.
Lena sat at the study table with a stack of archive documents spread in a precise, organized disorder that meant she knew exactly where everything was. She had inherited, without anyone planning it, the habit of late evenings in the study. It had always been mine, these quiet hours where the rest of the pack softened into sleep while the real work continued in low light and long focus.
Now it was hers too.
Roger sat across from her with patrol reports, one hand resting against the edge of the table, the other turning pages in steady, unhurried motions. The lamp burned low between
