Jim woke to the absence of her.
The space beside him was empty, the sheets already cooling, the imprint of her body fading fast. His hand brushed over the spot where she had been, a dull ache unfurling in his chest, slow and insidious. He blinked against the dim light filtering through the curtains, his mind sluggish with sleep, the warmth of last night still clinging to his skin. For a moment, just one moment, he let himself stay there, eyes closed, inhaling the faint trace of her—roses and earth, a ghost of something already slipping through his fingers.
Then he sat up.
The silence of the house pressed in, thick and expectant. He pushed a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he scanned the room. Her clothes were gone. No sign she had ever been here at all. A sharp pang cut throu
