The problem with staying up late reading about grief and soul doors is that your dreams get ideas.
I must’ve passed out mid-paragraph. One second I was at the little library table, chin in my hand, reading about “sorrow’s flame” and “anchor souls,” and the next I was in my old living room like I’d never left.
Same sagging couch. Same crooked picture frames. The afghan my grandmother crocheted draped over the back. The TV off, reflecting the room in its black screen. A half-finished mug of tea on the coffee table.
For a second, my chest loosened. Home. My home.
I heard water running in the kitchen. Plates clinking. His voice humming off-key to some commercial jingle. The sound punched straight through all the layers of numb I’d built. I turned toward it before I could stop myself.
“Bab
