By the time I woke, someone had painted a fox on the wall.
It sat above the reading nook with its tail curled around a stack of storybooks, ears pricked as if listening to the room breathe. The paint was still tacky in places, small glints under the lamp. Rachel lay on the rug beneath it on her side, propped on one elbow, hair unbraided and pulled over one shoulder like a length of night.
"I wanted it to be here when you opened your eyes," she said without getting up. Her voice holds quiet differently than other people's—as if sound itself is relieved to be near her.
"You succeeded," I said, sitting carefully because my body keeps a ledger of my decisions. "How long have you been listening to the house?"
