The house was still
Too still.
The kind of stillness that made the walls hum with every unsaid thing.
The kind that made loneliness feel heavier than gravity. The kind that held such unruly emotions.
Yes, the house was always still in this regard.
Sophia had gone to bed hours ago, her energy burned out in a flurry of wine and heartbreak.
Isabelle had helped her settle into the guest room—tucked her in like they were still children and storms still scared them.
Kissed her forehead.
Whispered, I’ve got you.
Then she’d closed the door and wandered the hallway like a ghost, like someone who didn’t know where she belonged anymore.
She should’ve gone to her own room.
Locked the door.
Curled under the covers and pretended she wasn’t unraveling.
But the wine made her slow.
Made her
