Light burned into my eyes. I opened them slowly.
Morning.
The ceiling was familiar now. High and white, with delicate crown molding I had traced with my eyes before—the first time I woke in this room, confused and bleeding from a cut I didn't remember receiving. The first time I saw the painting in the hallway. The bear on the table.
I had been here before.
This room. This bed. This silence.
The first time, I thought I was in heaven. Then I thought I was in hell.
Now I actually didn't know what to think.
I turned my head.
He was gone.
The bed was vast around me, empty sheets cold on the other side. No indentation on the pillow. No warmth.
He hadn't slept beside me. Or if he had, he'd left before dawn, erasing all evidence of his presence.
Like the table. Like the room downstairs. Like everything that happened.
