The morning light falls through the glass wall in long, golden sheets—soft, almost sacred, the way light falls in churches. Now, without hesitation, the heavy curtains draw aside completely. Dust motes drift through the beams like tiny prayers ascending.
Silas sits on the couch.
His hands rest in his lap—fingers twisting, fumbling, weaving in and out of each other like they're searching for something to hold onto. The blood has dried on his nightshirt now. Rust-colored. Evidence. The collar is stained where it seeped into the fabric, spreading—quiet proof of what happened only moments ago.
I take the first-aid box from the drawer. My movements are slow. Heavy. Each step toward him costs something I can't name.
The more I try to push him away, the more I find myself stuck with him.
I sit beside him. Not close. A distance wide enough to pretend we're strangers who accidentally shared a room.
