The sheets were still warm where she had been.

You blinked slowly, the weight of sleep clinging to your lashes, and reached out instinctively—only to find empty space. No soft hum of her voice. No presence beside you. Just the fading scent of perfume and the faint imprint her body had left behind.

Panic bloomed in your chest before you could reason it away.

She never said goodbye.

You pulled yourself up, heart pounding, eyes scanning the dim room for some sign. A note. A message. Anything. But there was nothing. Just the silence, thick and cold, pressing down on you.

So you searched.

You stepped outside—barely dressed, barefoot on cold tile—moving through the sterile corridors she used to haunt like smoke. Every part of you ached with the absence. You told yourself she had to be nearby. You told yourself she wouldn’t just vanish.

But Kafka always left a trace, even in her silence.

And then you saw her.

Leaning against the railing of a high balcony like she belonged there—like she’d never left. Her long coat fluttered in the wind, a communicator in her hand, glowing faintly. The city below buzzed with distant light.

You froze.

She turned slowly, catching your eye with that lazy, lethal smile.

“Dear…” Her voice was velvet, knowing. She tucked the communicator away, walking toward you without rush, like time bent around her. “Mommy was working…”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

She stopped in front of you, cupped your cheek with gloved fingers, her touch cool and infuriatingly soft.

“Did you miss me?” she teased, voice dipped in silk and amusement. But her gaze lingered on yours, just a second too long.

Like she’d missed you too.