Not fades.
Stops.
The silence that follows is worse than any surge. My knees buckle before I understand why.
Winnie jerks in her stall, snorting hard. The cattle in the east pasture startle in a ripple, hooves thudding against packed dirt.
Something’s wrong. Not storm. Not range.
Her.
The air feels hollow. Like pressure reversed. Like something that was anchored has slipped.
I’m already moving before the thought forms. Out of the barn. Across the yard. Boots hitting dirt hard enough to jar bone.
I don’t saddle. I don’t think.
Distance is discipline.But distance just failed.
The closer I move toward her house, the worse the sensation becomes—not pain. Absence.
A hollow ache sits low in my chest, like a lung not filling properly.
The porch door stands ajar. Rural habits. Unlocked.
The house smells of old wood and something faintly sweet. Martin snores from the bedroom upstairs. Lights are off, everyone settled for the night. But I know better.
“Josephine,” I call once.
No answer.
The hum flickers.
Faint. Weak. Upstairs.
I take the steps two at a time.
Her bedroom door is open. She’s not there.
The parlor light glows dim in the hallway. I follow it. And stop.
Photographs are scattered across the rug like leaves after a hard wind. The album lies open. And she’s on the floor. Collapsed beside it.
For half a second, I don’t move. Because I know what this is.
Recognition shock. Timing acceleration. A containment fracture.
“Damn it,” I breathe.
I’m beside her in two strides. Her pulse. That’s the first thing I check.
Steady. Fast. Alive.
Relief hits too sharp.
Her skin is pale against the dark wood floor. I slide one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees.
The moment I lift her, the hum returns.
