I wake before the sun because my body doesn’t understand how to sleep through grief, and I lie there staring at the ceiling while the quiet presses in from every side, heavy but not violent, and I breathe slowly before I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and set my feet on the cold floor.
The house smells wrong without her, not empty, just wrong, like something shifted in the night and the walls haven’t caught up yet.
I brush my teeth because routine keeps my hands busy, and the mint burns sharp against my tongue while I watch my reflection in the mirror, pale but steady, and I don’t look away when I see how much older I look than I did a week ago. I rinse, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and turn the shower on hotter than usual because I need the sting.
The water hits my s
