That night, Elijah fell asleep quickly, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm that should have been comforting. Instead, it set Amara's mind spinning. She lay beside him, awake, acutely aware of the space between them, of the quiet that seemed to press against her from all sides, heavy and expectant, as if the house itself were holding its breath for her next move. She turned onto her side, tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes. Each tiny fissure seemed like a mirror of her own fragile calm, reflecting the tension coiling tightly in her chest. The lingering scent of rosemary and baked lemon from dinner should have been soothing, but it felt muted, distant, swallowed by unease.
Finally, she could bear it no longer. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot across the cool hardwood floor. The soft rustle of her robe was the only sound besides Milo's low, intermittent breathing at the foot of the bed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the nightstand, opening the top drawer the drawer that held the bright, unfamiliar red hair tie.
It was still there.
Her chest tightened as she bent closer, catching her reflection in the bedroom window. The faint streetlight outside darkened her features, made her eyes look wide and alert, shadows pooling beneath her lashes. She picked up the hair tie, turning it over in her fingers, feeling its slick texture, the impossible brightness of its hue. Small. Insistent. Out of place. So ordinary, and yet it demanded answers she could not give, answers she could not force from Elijah, no matter how hard she tried.
A low, warning growl rumbled from Milo somewhere in the shadows, and her heart leapt into her throat. Every nerve was taut, her senses straining for any hint of movement. The dog's ears pricked toward the darkness of the bedroom doorway, hackles rising ever so slightly, a silent alarm. Her own gaze darted there instinctively, trying to pierce the pool of black. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting, every creak and sigh amplified in the thick silence.
Slowly, she set the hair tie back in the drawer, her fingers lingering as though touching it again might summon clarity. Then, with deliberate slowness, she closed the drawer. Hands shaking, she pressed a palm to her chest, feeling the coil of unease tighten even further, a small, stubborn knot lodged in her ribs. Milo's growl faded into a cautious sniff, and the room fell into brittle, uneasy silence.
She straightened and took a shaky breath, moving toward the bedroom door. Her bare feet made soft, measured contact with the cold floor as she stepped into the hallway. The air felt different thicker, heavier, almost alive. Shadows pooled along the walls, curling toward her with every step.
Midway down the hall, just before the stairs, the bedroom light flickered. The world tilted, and for a brief, impossible moment, her surroundings dissolved. The hallway behind her wasn't her home at all. The walls were pale, padded, sterile. The overhead light blazed in white glare. The faint scent of cedar and linen evaporated, replaced by the antiseptic sting of hospital corridors. She caught herself in a window's reflection: hair tangled, eyes wide and unseeing, expression taut and fragile. Somewhere far away, a soft wail echoed, distant yet unbearably close. Milo's growl cut sharply through the silence, a warning, a tether back to reality.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the hallucination snapped away. The hallway returned, warm and familiar, the comforting scent of rosemary and baked bread returning to her senses. Her hands shook, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back a moan. Every pulse in her chest screamed at her, yet she forced herself to inhale and ground herself in the textures she could trust: the grain of the wood beneath her feet, the faint rustle of her robe, the steady, low breathing of Milo at her feet.
Shakily, she moved again, taking deliberate steps down the hall. Shadows stretched long and dark but now felt anchored, tethered to the normal rhythm of the house. And yet, when the bedroom light flickered a second time, her stomach dropped. The floorboards seemed to ripple into institutional tiles, and the familiar family pictures along the walls were replaced by blank panels. Her own reflection, caught in the window, stared back at her wide-eyed, trembling but older, thinner, like the hours of worry had aged her in seconds. The faint, bitter tang of disinfectant replaced the comforting smell of dinner, curling her stomach into a tight knot.
Milo growled again, and instinctively, she knelt to clutch his collar, grounding herself. Each heartbeat felt too loud, each breath measured, pulling her back from the brink of something unnameable. Just as quickly as it began, the hallway snapped back into the familiar warmth of home: polished wood floors, framed photographs along the walls, the faint aroma of rosemary and baked bread in the air.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her trembling legs to move. The fear lingered, a persistent smoke curling quietly in her chest, but now it felt watchable, manageable, less like a force overtaking her. She drew a long, deliberate breath and stepped toward the bedroom. Each footfall was careful, deliberate, her bare feet whispering across the wood. The familiar scents greeted her as she reached the door: linen, cedar, faint traces of the lemon and rosemary from dinner.
She turned the handle slowly, letting it click softly behind her, and sank onto the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Milo shifted at the foot of the bed, settling into a low, rumbling sigh that vibrated faintly. The unease still lingered, curling in the hollow between her ribs like smoke, but for the first time that night, it felt contained, watchable, like a creature she could observe without being consumed.
The red hair tie still rested in the drawer, bright and immovable a silent question she could not yet answer. And though the tension had not left her entirely, the familiar warmth of the bedroom, the low, steady breathing of Milo, the quiet rhythm of the house, allowed her to lean back, just enough, and let herself feel temporarily anchored.