Remnant

The house is exactly as he left it.

That’s the first thing he notices. Not the quiet—though it’s there, thick and settled—but the way everything remains in place, as if the hours since he left have simply folded in on themselves. The shoes by the door. The chipped mug on the counter. The faint hum of the refrigerator, steady and patient.

“Hey,” he calls, shrugging off his coat. “I’m back.”

No answer.

He smiles anyway. Of course. She’s still upset.

He toes off his shoes, lines them beside hers. The gesture feels important, like a small apology offered without words. He moves through the hallway slowly, his hand grazing the wall, fingertips catching on familiar imperfections—the scuff near the light switch, the nail she always said she’d hammer down.

“I picked up those oranges you like,” he says. “The good ones this time. Not the sour kind.”

Still nothing.

He pauses outside the bedroom door, listening. The quiet presses closer here, heavier somehow, like the air has been waiting for him to arrive. He exhales, steadying himself, and pushes the door open.

“Shea?”

The curtains are drawn. The room is dim, dust caught in thin blades of light that slip through the edges. She’s in bed, just as he expected, curled slightly on her side beneath the covers.

Relief softens something in his chest.

“There you are.”

He steps inside, closing the door carefully. The smell hits him—faint at first, something sour beneath her familiar lavender lotion. He pauses, squinting at her still form.

“You really should open a window,” he murmurs. “It’s stuffy in here.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. She doesn’t stir.

“Still mad, huh?” His voice cracks slightly.

A strand of hair falls across her face. He brushes it aside. Her skin is pale, colder than it should be, like something that’s forgotten what warmth is.

“Jesus, Shea… you’re freezing.”

She says nothing.

He pulls the blanket higher around her shoulders. The sour smell grows. He notices it in pieces, something he can’t quite place.

“You could’ve at least turned the heat on,” he murmurs. “You know how you get.”

Still silent.

He presses his forehead to hers. The chill seeps into him, but he doesn’t pull away. “Alright,” he whispers. “I get it. You’re upset. I shouldn’t have left like that. I just needed some air, to think. I came back. That’s what matters.”

Her fingers are stiff beneath his hand. He squeezes gently, waiting for the familiar squeeze back. Nothing.

A thin, uncertain laugh escapes him. “Okay. Silent treatment. Fine. I deserve that.”

He slides an arm around her, holding her close. She’s heavier than he expects, rigid in a way that makes his breath hitch. He rocks her slowly, rhythmically, as if soothing both her and himself.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m here now. You don’t have to be like this anymore.”

The air doesn’t change. The sour smell lingers. Her body remains still, unyielding.

He holds her anyway. Waits. Hopes. Listens for the smallest sign of warmth—a sigh, a shift, a flicker of life. He keeps whispring, keeps hoping, counting on the moment she softens.

A faint exhale brushes his cheek. Just a whisper of motion, almost imagined, almost real—but enough to set his chest easing, just a little.

“There… see? You’re warming up now.”