Alright. I'm going to do this cleanly,
I wake up to silence.
Not the heavy kind that buzzes in your ears or begs to be filled. This one feels ordinary. Clean. Like the apartment is simply doing what apartments do when no one is paying attention to them.
For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling. I wait for the reflex. The reach for my phone. The thought of Lena. The small spike of dread that usually comes with consciousness.
Nothing happens.
I swing my legs off the couch and sit there, blanket pooled around my ankles. My joints protest mildly. The room is dim, light barely pushing past the curtains. Josh's door is shut. Alice's room is quiet. Everyone else is still asleep or pretending to be.
The kettle on the counter is empty. I notice this without reacting to it.
I open my laptop instead.
The screen comes alive, bright in the dim room. The cursor blinks at me. I don't hesitate. I don't reread anything. I don't check yesterday's work.
I start typing.
The words come fast. Faster than they should. Scenes stack up without planning. Dialogue appears already sharpened. My fingers ache before my brain catches up, but I keep going. The laptop fan hums softly, then louder. I ignore it.
Josh knocks once on his door. Once. Then silence again.
I don't look up.
Time moves without asking permission. The light shifts on the wall. My tea sits untouched beside me until it goes cold. When my wrist cramps, I shake it once and continue typing with the other hand.
At some point, the screen freezes.
The cursor stops blinking.
I stare at it, waiting for irritation. It never arrives. I save the document when the system recovers, notice I have written several pages I do not remember forming, and scroll up to reread one paragraph.
It is good.
That realization lands quietly. No relief. No pride. Just confirmation.
I catch my reflection in the dark window across the room. My posture is steady. My face looks calm. Focused. If someone walked in right now, they would probably think I was fine.
The thought does not comfort me.
My stomach tightens briefly, then settles. I cannot remember the last thing I ate. I close the document without fixing that problem and shut the laptop.
When I stand, the room tilts slightly. I wait for it to pass. It does.
The envelope is on the table when I step into the kitchen.
White. Thick paper. Centered perfectly, as if someone placed it there and adjusted it twice. My name is printed, not written.
I know before I touch it that it did not come from my mother.
I fill the kettle this time. The tap rattles. The sound feels louder than it should. While the water heats, I turn the envelope over once, then leave it where it is.
The kettle clicks off.
I pour coffee, add too much sugar without noticing, then sit at the table. Only then do I open the envelope.
Cream card stock. Minimalist design. Expensive restraint. My mother's name appears first, followed by a last name that does not belong to her yet.
Richard Moreland.
The name looks settled there. As if it has always occupied that space. As if it did not arrive late and rearrange everything around it.
There is no note inside. No message tucked into the fold. Just the invitation.
A date. A venue. An RSVP card.
I take a sip of coffee. It is too sweet. I drink it anyway.
I wait for anger. I wait for the familiar tightening in my chest, the rush of thoughts lining up to argue on my behalf.
What I feel instead is tiredness. Deep and practiced. The kind that recognizes a pattern before it fully forms.
I picture the ceremony without trying to. My mother smiling carefully. Richard shaking hands, nodding at the right moments. People congratulating them on finding happiness, as if it appeared out of nowhere.
I picture myself there. Standing where I am told. Smiling because that is what sons do.
The image feels distant. Unnecessary.
I won't go.
The decision arrives without negotiation. No back and forth. No justification. It does not feel brave or cruel. It just feels done.
I glance at the RSVP card. My fingers hover over it for a moment, then pull back. I fold the invitation instead and slide it back into the envelope.
A knock sounds from the door. Sharp. Insistent.
I freeze.
No one knocks like that here.
Josh's door opens behind me. "You expecting someone?"
I shake my head.
The knock comes again, louder this time.
I move to the door and open it partway.
A courier stands in the hallway, tablet in hand. He glances at the screen, then at me.
"Ash Bennett?"
"Yes."
"I need you to sign for this."
He hands me a thin package. Too light to be anything substantial. I sign without asking questions.
As he leaves, I turn the package over. There is no return address. Just one word printed on the label, in block letters.
LENA.
Josh is watching me now. "What is it?"
I don't answer. My fingers hesitate on the seal.
Then I open it.
Inside are photographs. Not new ones.
Old. Loose, unarranged.
My hands still as I sort through them. A park bench. A birthday cake leaning to one side. Two kids too close to the camera, laughing at nothing.
I recognize my own handwriting on the back of one. Crooked. Careless. From a time when I still believed permanence was automatic.
Josh says my name, softly this time.
I didn't look up.
I am eight years old again in my hands. Twelve. Fourteen.
She does not need to say anything.
The message is clear.
She became a part of my being.