And I noticed something worse.
I was looking too.
On the third night, I heard footsteps stop outside my bedroom.
I was awake.
The hallway was silent except for the old house settling around us.
The footsteps remained there for several seconds.
Then they moved away.
The next morning, neither of us mentioned it.
By then, an uneasy rhythm had formed between us.
Breakfast together.
Housework.
Quiet dinners.
Old movies in the living room.
She sat at one end of the couch, usually curled beneath a blanket.
I sat at the other.
We talked about everything except the one thing neither of us could name.
Then came Thursday morning.
The morning that changed everything.
I woke just after seven to the sound of the shower shutting off down the hall.
I was half asleep, shirtless beneath the blanket, when my bedroom door opened.
Michelle walked in.
She took three steps before stopping.
