Kent
The sound of her crying through the heavy door was a low, ragged string of noises that rubbed against the grain of my spine. I did not knock on the wood. I did not call out to her through the panels because a woman whose entire world had just been torn apart by words did not need more words throwing her against the wall.
Instead, I slid down the hallway wall opposite her room, letting my weight drop until I sat flat on the floorboards. I stretched my legs out into the narrow space, my shoulders broad against the plaster. I stayed right there. The hours dragged by as the house grew colder, night falling around the house. The shadows from the trees outside crawled across the ceiling, but I remained where I was, a silent presence in the dark, marking the boundary of her safety.
It was
