I stand in the hallway longer than I mean to.
The house feels bigger when she isn't in it. Not physically bigger, but emptier in a way that presses against my ribs. I can hear the faint hum of the ventilation system, the tick of a clock somewhere downstairs. Sounds I've lived with for years suddenly feel intrusive.
I rake a hand through my hair and exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders down.
Get a grip.
I move again, slower this time, checking rooms I already know will be empty. The guest bedroom. The small sitting room near the library. Even the terrace doors again, because some stupid part of me hopes I'll see her outside, curled into herself with a book or staring at the garden like she does when she's thinking too hard.
Nothing.
Which means she's somewhere on the grounds. I leave the house the same way I do when I need to clear my head, walking fast, coat still on, phone already in my hand. The air outside is clean, biting just enough to remind me I'm still wound too tight
