conscious thought.
Until the night of the empty sofa.
Act III: The Thin Line of Light
It happened on a Tuesday in late August. A heavy, unseasonable storm had rolled in off the Pacific, lashing the windows of our Portland home with sheets of heavy rain and rattling the loose aluminum siding. The power had flickered out twice around 10:00 PM before finally stabilizing, leaving the house smelling of ozone and damp cedar.
I woke up at 12:30 AM with a sudden, suffocating dryness in my throat. The room was pitch black, save for the sickly green glow of the digital alarm clock on my nightstand.
I reached out to my right to rub Evan’s shoulder, expecting to feel the familiar slope of his back beneath his t-shirt.
My hand met only ice-cold, rumpled cotton.
