Trixy's Pov
The house had never been so unsettlingly quiet.
Two weeks of healing—two long days when I had to tiptoe around and the smell of antiseptic, which seemed to stick to my clothes, lingered in my mind—had been stretched out like an endless rainy season. I followed the doctor's orders exactly for the first three days: rest, no stress, and only essential outings.
The longer I remained home, the more oppressive the silence became that it felt like a weight that suffocated one. I had read all the books I had on my shelf, watched my loved one's TV series to death, and even sorted my clothes by colors to keep myself busy. None of these things had any effect.
One question seemed to be present under the silence, as if it were a deep wound:
Why didn't Zyron come?
