The bed is empty when I wake up.

I don’t move right away. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle around me. It’s still dark—early, maybe just past five. The air is cold against my skin, the sheets beside me cooler than they should be.

She’s not here.

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face before sitting up. No real panic, no alarm. Just an awareness—a weight in my chest, pressing in slow and steady.

She does this sometimes. Wanders. Leaves the bed before me. Never far. Never gone.

The house is silent as I step out of the bedroom, barefoot, the floorboards cold under me. The kind of quiet that feels almost staged, like something waiting to be disturbed.

I find her in the kitchen