Eliana woke to the strobe of her phone on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
Another. Then another. A string of them from the night before, times stamped 2:07 a.m., 3:51, 5:12. No voicemails. No messages. Just the insistence of the ring.
She wanted to turn it off but she's waiting for a call that never came. Maria still didn't come home.
Outside, the sky over Montpellier wore the color of unripe plums. The neighborhood was still—curtains drawn, somebody's coffee machine coughing to life somewhere.
When she crossed the hall, Elliot was already on the sofa. He sat like he'd been poured there and forgotten, elbows on knees, phone loose in his hand, eyes red-rimmed from a night of not sleeping.
The TV was black. The curtains were open to a slate morning. A half-eaten piece of toast rested on a plate beside him, the crust pinched off as if he'd been trying to eat with his thoughts elsewhere and lost track halfway through.
"Any word?" she asked, voice sanded down.
