The Meditative

Laura awoke to the sharp hum of silence. The kind of silence that felt deliberate-too heavy, too still, as though the world had conspired to keep her in bed. She blinked at the ceiling, her breath shallow, and fought the urge to close her eyes again. The light that bled through the edges of the curtains felt alien.

The bed felt too big, too cold. Jack's absence was like a jagged crack running through her morning, an unwelcome emptiness she couldn't ignore. The note sat waiting for her on the fireplace, but Laura hadn't touched it yet. She told herself it was because she wanted coffee first, but the truth was simpler. She wasn't ready.

Sliding out of bed, she let her bare feet press into the chilled wooden floor. She shivered-not from the cold, but from the growing unease pressing against her chest. Jack was always precise, always predictable. Notes were for grocery lists or reminders to take out the trash-not cryptic messages left on fireplaces.

In the bathroom, Laura caught her reflection. The mirror wasn't kind. Her dark brown hair stuck out at odd angles, and faint shadows rimmed her eyes. She ran her fingers over her face, lingering on the faint lines around her mouth. She'd always looked younger than her age, but today, she felt every one of her thirty-six years.