I woke up to an unusual emptiness beside me. My fingers grazed over the sheets where James should have been, but all I felt was cool linen. I made a face, looking into the dimness cast by the light streaming through the windows.
James never left our bed at night.
A faint creak echoed from downstairs. My stomach twisted.
I pushed the covers back, my movements slow, deliberate. Was I imagining things? Maybe he just went to get a drink. Yet, for what reason hadn't I ever heard him, walking before that creak? Something about the silence felt wrong—too thick, too heavy.
I hesitated, considering whether to flip over and feign ignorance. Maybe I was just being paranoid. But then another sound—quieter this time, like a door being pulled shut with careful precision—sent a chill through me.
I h
