It was the kind of quiet that had been building for weeks, settling into the corners with the dust and the unwashed dishes. The TV was off. The lights were low.

You were alone.

The cough started deep in your chest, a familiar, garden-growing pressure that clawed up your throat before you could stop it. You barely made it to the sink.

Petals. Soft, white, and blood-flecked. You stared at them, then turned the tap, watching the water carry them down the drain.

A key turned in the lock.