Ghost Signals: Tess
I woke up before the alarm, the morning light filtered through the curtains in pale, dusty streaks. Beside me, K.C. was still asleep, but it wasn’t the heavy, restorative rest the weekend had given us. Even in sleep, his jaw was set, and his hand was curled into a fist against the pillow. The early morning wake up call hadn’t been a dream. I could still feel the phantom chill of the kitchen floor and the way his heart had been racing — not like a man who was scared, but like an engine idling too high, ready to blow. I slid out of bed, moving quietly to the bathroom to start my routine. I brushed my hair and applied a light layer of mascara. My reflection looked like the manager of a boutique. I looked normal. But as I pulled on a pair of dark denim jeans and a distressed, emerald green
- Writer
