The apartment was too quiet.
Julia woke to it—the kind of silence that didn’t rest, didn’t heal. It lingered like punishment. The other side of the bed was cold, untouched since he’d left. His jacket still hung on the back of the chair, a ghost of his warmth. His coffee mug sat on the counter, a ring of dried bitterness circling the bottom. She hated that she could still smell him—soap, sawdust, and rain.
She moved through the small space mechanically, every object betraying her. His shoes by the door. The dent on the couch where he’d fallen asleep one night watching her work. The cracked window he kept promising to fix.
She told herself she was glad he was gone. That distance meant peace. But when her fingers brushed the mug and it wobbled slightly, she caught it with both hands—grippi
