Chapter 3 - The First WatchBack in the master bedroom, the air felt different.
Evan closed the heavy mahogany door behind him, locking it mechanically. The room was still blazing with light. Every chandelier, every bedside lamp, every recessed ceiling fixture poured artificial brightness into the space.
He walked over to the king-sized bed and sat down on the edge.
For the past three years, the bed had been a battlefield. He would lie down at midnight, his eyes burning with exhaustion, and the moment his head hit the pillow, the ghosts would arrive. The sound of rain on a windshield. The screech of metal. The unbearable, hollow silence that followed when his phone rang at 3:14 AM.
He would toss and turn until 2:00 AM, give up, get out of bed, turn on every light in the house, and stare at spreadsheets until dawn painted the sky gray.
Tonight, however, as he leaned back against the headboard, something else drifted into his mind.
“You can’t think good thoughts when your tummy is empty.”
“The turtle told Benjamin, ‘You don’t forget somebody just because you rest.’”
Evan let out a slow breath. He picked up his phone, scrolling past the emails, and opened a notes app. Without really thinking about why he was doing it, his thumbs tapped out a short message to Mrs. Reynolds, the longtime house manager who lived in the east wing:
“Please have the kitchen stock fresh pancake mix, maple syrup, and blueberries by tomorrow morning. Thank you.”
He stared at the screen, a strange, faint smirk touching his lips. If Mrs. Reynolds saw that at 1:00 AM, she would probably assume he had finally lost his remaining sanity.
Which he probably had.
He locked the phone and tossed it onto the nightstand. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out and clicked off the lamp on the left side of the bed.
Shadows crept across the carpet.
His heart seized. A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck. The darkness pressed in, threatening to suffocate him, whispering reminders of the night the world went black.
Before panic could fully take hold, his hand darted out and clicked the lamp back on.
He sat there, chest heaving, staring at the blazing light.
May you like
"Not yet," he whispered to the empty room. "Baby steps, turtle."
It was 2:15 AM when he finally closed his eyes—not in sleep, but in thought—listening to the rain against the window, realizing with a start that for the first time in three years, he hadn't thought about spreadsheets once during the entire night.
