Suspended in that early stillness where everything feels softer than reality.
Then I felt a gentle shake on my shoulder.
“Come on,” my husband whispered, smiling slightly.
“There’s something waiting for you downstairs.”
I blinked slowly.
Still half-asleep.
“Is it coffee?” I asked, trying to smile.
He didn’t answer directly.
Just helped me sit up.
“There’s something you should see.”
I laughed lightly, pulling on a robe.
In my mind, I imagined something simple.
Candles maybe.
Breakfast.
A small surprise.
Nothing more than that.
But something in his expression made me pause for half a second.
There was warmth there.
But also anticipation.
Like he was waiting for something larger than a reaction.
I followed him downstairs barefoot.
The house felt different.
Not loud.
Not empty.
But still.
Too still.
As if it was holding its breath.
When I entered the living room, I stopped immediately.
Everything in me paused at once.
There was a chair in the center of the room.
A wooden chair.
Old.
Polished carefully.
Familiar in a way I couldn’t place immediately.
On it lay a folded quilt.
Neatly arranged.
Intentional.
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