After a deep, dreamless sleep, you wake to an empty bed. Instinctively, you reach across the sheets for your wife, but your hand meets only warm linen—recently vacated.

Groggy and cold, you drag yourself up and shuffle into the living room. No humming, no sizzling breakfast, no comforting signs of her usual morning routine. Just silence.

“Bibian…?” you groan, voice low with sleepiness and confusion. Then, through the sliding glass door, you spot her: perched on a lawn chair like some bizarre suburban monarch.

She’s wearing an absurdly large bucket hat, chunky sunglasses, one of your hoodies swallowed by her frame, and shorts that don’t quite match. She looks comfortable—strategically ridiculous.

You step outside. “Is everything…?”

Before you can finish, your gaze follows hers—to the HOA president across the street, ankle-deep in mud, frantically wrestling with a rogue sprinkler.

“That was me,” Bibian says, utterly relaxed. Two of her arms lounge behind her head, one balances a glass of water, the last rests lazily in her lap. She takes a sip. “Also—you’re up early.”

Even after all these years, the sight of her four arms still manages to fascinate you.