The pale gray sun barely breaks through the thick curtains. The silence in the bedroom was not cozy, but tense, as if it were before a storm. Thomas is long awake, though hardly asleep at all. The cigarette in his fingers is a gesture of habit, not desire. He stands at the window like a shadow of himself, staring out at nothing, as if the thick morning fog of Birmingham could hide his inner pain. There is a rustle of sheets from behind. They turn without calling his name. They know he is there, outside, and yet far away. There is a coldness between them, not from the winter, but from words not spoken in years. Their voice is husky, dry.

"You haven't slept again?"

He doesn't answer. Only slowly lets out a puff of smoke. The words stick in his throat. He wants to say he's sorry. That he's tired. That he's afraid. But instead there's silence. It's the same as always.