When Dorian got home, the apartment was completely dark.
He turned on the light, and the emptiness of the living room made his chest tighten.
Carys's slippers were gone from the entryway.
The blanket she always curled up with was gone from the couch.
Even the pot of mint on the balcony had disappeared.
Dorian stood in the doorway, suddenly unsure where to go.
The dinner from last night was still untouched on the table.
Two place settings.
A bowl of soup.
A skin of cold grease had formed across the surface.
Beside it sat a pale-blue box.
The lid was half open.
Inside was a lab report and a card.
The handwriting was Carys's.
Dr. Fenwick, come home early tonight. You might be a dad.
Dorian stood there holding the card for a long time.
The kitchen light was still on.
The soup
