The house is too quiet again.
Morning drapes itself across the windows in long, reluctant streaks of pale light, and even the air feels cautious, as if afraid to disturb the stillness that settled after last night. Somewhere below, a door shuts softly—too far to matter, but close enough that I hear it and freeze. Every sound in this place feels amplified, as though the walls themselves enjoy reminding me I’m never alone.
Bella sleeps on her side, curled beneath the duvet, one hand tucked under her cheek. She looks smaller here, swallowed by this house. Softer. Safer, maybe—but only because she doesn’t understand the danger that safety costs. I brush a strand of hair from her face and pull the blanket higher over her shoulder before sliding off the bed.
The floor is cold beneath my feet.
