The first night home felt too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet people romanticize, the kind filled with soft breathing and gentle dreams. This quiet had weight. It felt as though the house itself was holding its breath, listening and waiting. Every creak of the wooden floor and every whisper of wind against the windows seemed louder than ever before.
Helen stood in the nursery doorway. One hand rested on the frame, while the other pressed gently against her chest, as if she could steady her own heartbeat. The dim glow of the nightlight painted the room in warm amber, casting long shadows across the walls decorated with tiny painted clouds.
Inside the crib, her newborn daughter slept.