Mira sat behind her writing desk, a lamp's soft light creating a warm pool of light on the pages of her leather-bound journal. The rest of her apartment was dark—only the faint outlines of her drafting table and the big bookcase beyond the light's reach. In the distance, a car alarm gave out a scream for a moment before silence fell over the night.
She lifted her pen, her heart thudding against her ribs. The nib poised above the blank page as if daring her to break the quiet. Outside, the city was a hum, cars distant, a wail in far-off streets, the soft vibration of life she'd almost abandoned. She drew a breath, savored regret and ink.
September 15th, 2:14 a.m. she wrote, the numbers clumsy in the lamplight. I’m up again. The apartment feels empty and full at once—an echo chamber for ev
