Jessa

By the time I slipped out of my heels and set them carefully by my bed, the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you notice everything—the faint hum of the fridge downstairs, the tick of the clock on my wall, the rustle of my dress as I eased it off and hung it gently in the closet like it was something fragile. Something important.

Because it was.

I stood there for a long moment just looking at it. The fabric still held a bit of warmth from my body, a ...