The bed creaked when she leaned back. Old wood. Grandmother's frame. Firm mattress. Plain cotton sheets bought because Elara had never wanted anything from sheets except to stay clean and stay where she put them.
The room did not become someone else's room because they were in it together. That mattered.
The chair by the bed still held her folded uniform jacket. The cup she had used before he arrived sat on the table with a line of tea at the bottom. The book she had been reading for a year lay face down on the bedside crate, not hidden, not arranged, just left there by a woman who had finally stopped preparing for inspection.
Caleb noticed all of it because he had spent too many years learning where people kept exits.
Elara caught him cataloging the room. "No tactical survey," she said.
"Hard habit."
"Break it for ten minutes."
He huffed once, embarrassed by how much effort that took. "Trying."
