DYERThe den still wakes before I do.

I know this because the silence has weight now.

It presses against my ribs when my eyes open, heavy and expectant, like the room is waiting for something that never arrives. The hearth is cold. The curtains barely stir. No soft footsteps. No scent shifting the air.

Just me.

I sit up slowly, rubbing a hand down my face, listening to the den breathe without her in it. It has been doing that for weeks now, existing without explanation, continuing as though ...