Leah
The house was quiet when I got home.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that made every sound feel too loud once it happened.
I locked the door, dropped my keys into the bowl by the entryway, and stood there longer than necessary, my coat still on, my bag sliding slowly off my shoulder until it hit the floor with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the hallway. I flinched, then exhaled.
Get it together.
I moved through the house on autopilot. Shoes off. Coat hung. Bag picked up and set neatly on the chair where it always went. I turned on the lamp in the living room instead of the overhead light, instinctively choosing softer illumination, as if the room itself might bruise if I was too abrupt.
Bella wouldn’t be home for hours.
The thought landed with unexpected relief—and then
