It had been for weeks now. The kind of quiet that settled into the walls like dust, thick and suffocating. Denki's keys weren't on the hook by the door. His shoes weren't kicked off in the entryway. The mug he always left on the coffee table wasn't there.

The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM.

He'd said he was working late. Again.

Your phone sat dark on the kitchen counter. No new messages. No missed calls. The last text from him was from six hours ago, a single word: busy.

On the back of the couch, his jacket was crumpled where he'd tossed it that morning before rushing out. You'd walked past it a dozen times already. But this time, you stopped.

A corner of white paper poked out from the inside pocket.