Within minutes, the world would blur at the edges. My thoughts would dissolve into mist. The last thing I’d see was his silhouette standing by the bed, always watching, always calm. Then darkness — thick, dreamless, absolute.

Or at least, that’s what I believed for twenty years.

The Dreams That Weren’t Dreams

Sometimes, through the fog, fragments would appear. Music. Laughter. The sound of clinking glasses echoing somewhere in the house. At times, I thought I heard voices — too many, too loud — but when I woke in the morning, the air was still, my home spotless.