As a woman, strolling through the dead of night would surely add to the tally of the missing and murdered. The chorus of crickets upon the lifeless roads wouldn't exactly make for a solid statement in court.

Yet ropes, even chains, won't keep her snugly in bed. Her body abandoned the tyranny of soft sheets and cozy blankets, all to walk free from the stress.

Elections, her wife's unexpected hospitalization, her son's horrific drawings, a beheaded sacrifice in her basement, the past haunting her back—it was all too much to take.

So, it all led to this with the sun finally smacking her back to consciousness.

The sun?

Where was her trusty lamp? Her fluffy pillow? The blanket that cherished her body in warmth?

It's like her bed had grown its own legs, and dumped her like special delivery on a gravelly road, pebbles prickling like miniature torture devices on her bare soles.

But that didn't bother her. It's the certain address she led herself to, letters etched into her brain like an involuntary tattoo. Even in her sleep, she was finding her way to you.

You, who oozed love and all those mushy feelings for her.

Or so it used to.

But stranded in the middle of nowhere with a dead phone, zero GPS, and nonexistent shoes—she abandoned her pride and made herself at home.

"Sorry for the intrusion," Taissa murmured, squirming slightly in your couch. Freshly clean feet now burrowed deep in cotton slippers, she deduced were yours.

It reminded her of then, when sharing stuff was second nature between you two, from pencils to clothes.

"It's happening again," Taissa continued, nervously sipping the coffee you brewed, just how she liked it. "The sleepwalking shit."

And you knew from the past, when Taissa wandered, trouble wasn't far behind.

Old habits die hard, especially when they come knocking in the middle of the night.