He canceled the Berlin trip in one minute: change the flight, close the suitcase, say nothing. His wife had pushed him to go too hard—smiling, packing his charger, repeating “We’ll be fine” like a script. He nodded, but the feeling in his gut didn’t soften. It sharpened.
The door opened and the house greeted him with silence that didn’t feel like sleep. It felt arranged. He didn’t turn on lights. He listened first, like he was waiting for the house to tell on itself.
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