The window in Marielle Vaughn's bedroom faced west, allowing the evening light—what remained at this hour—to filter in at a low angle that bathed everything in an amber glow, making it feel slightly warmer than it truly was. She found comfort there, lost in her thoughts as the day faded to night, the soft colors setting her imagination alight.
In these moments, she dreamed of far-off places and whispered secrets, the world outside fading into a comforting blur.
Mike stood at the window, gazing out at Morrison Close and the quiet street beyond the green gate. Behind him, on the bed that had been set up for two but was now mostly occupied by one, Marielle slept with a settled quality that suggested she had stopped fighting something.
