It’s quiet again.

Too quiet.

The house always feels heavier in the mornings, like the air is thick with whatever the night left behind. Rebecca moves through it barefoot, the floorboards sighing under her steps. She keeps one hand around her mug, the other brushing against the wall for balance. There’s no light on yet — just the gray slant of dawn through the curtains, painting everything dull and colorless.

The kettle’s still warm. That means she hasn’t been asleep long. That means he’s still here.

Her stomach knots at the thought. She tells herself it’s routine — that this is just another morning, another check, another silent prayer that she didn’t make a mistake last night. But her fingers tighten around the mug anyway. Steam curls past her face, carrying the bitter smell of over-brewed coffee. She takes a sip she doesn’t taste.

The living room door stands half-shut, just as she left it. The crack is wide enough to show a hint of shadow inside, unmoving. Rebecca stares at it for a long time, her heart thudding like slow, careful knocks. Her own reflection stares faintly back from the glass of a picture frame on the wall — tired eyes, soft expression. Too calm to be sane.

“Alright…” she murmurs, more to herself than to whoever’s listening. “Let’s see if I was right about you.”

Her voice sounds steady, but she feels the tremor behind it — that creeping edge of dread she’s learned to live with. She reaches for the door handle, the metal cool against her palm, and breathes out once. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Just like always.

She pushes the door open.

Whether the figure inside is human or not… she’ll find out soon enough.