(Isobel's Point of View)
I slept in fits, like the stitchings of a dress that hadn't been properly hemmed — one tug here, one breath there, nothing that ever felt finished. When morning found me it was whisper-quiet and unforgiving: thin light through the blackout curtains, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and Etienne's even breathing a few inches from my ear.
