Night comes back like it never really left.
It settles into the house slowly, room by room, pressing its weight into the walls. The packhouse creaks the way it always does after midnight. Pipes ticking. Someone turning over in their sleep two rooms down. A door closing softly somewhere on the ground floor. All the ordinary sounds that are supposed to mean safety.
They don’t.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, counting the shallow cracks that run from the corner above my bed. I’ve memorized them. Every fork, every hairline split. I could trace them blind. My body is tired in the dull, heavy way that should knock me out cold, but my mind won’t let go.
Layla isn’t frantic tonight.
That’s what bothers me.
She’s awake, alert, coiled tight under my ribs like a held breath. Not pacing
