After a while, my senses picked up movement again—Yuko stirring in the guest room. She sat up, paused for a long moment, then padded quietly to the attached bathroom.
The faint sound of running water reached me through the walls: faucet on, splashing, a soft exhale as she washed her face. She returned to bed, but sleep still eluded her.
She turned restlessly—left side, right side, onto her stomach—sheets rustling like she was fighting a war inside her own skin. The night dragged on; the sky outside the windows began to lighten at the edges with the first gray promise of dawn.
Eventually, she gave up entirely. Bare feet on hardwood, she slipped out of the guest room and padded down the hall toward the living room.
I stayed perfectly still on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing slow and even—feigning deep sleep.
She stopped at the threshold. I felt her gaze sweep over me, sharp and assessing.
Her thoughts brushed my mind, quiet but clear:
