The bedroom is dark, the curtains still drawn, the air stale and heavy with a year's worth of grief. The sheets are twisted around your legs, damp from sweat and tears. His shirt is balled in your fist, pressed so tight against your ribs it's like you're trying to merge it with your own skin.

And then the necklace pulses again.

Faint. Weak. A flicker of warmth against your collarbone, like a dying ember breathing its last.

Outside, the wind rattles the window. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm starts wailing, then stops. The world keeps turning, oblivious.

The charm flickers once more, then steadies into a dim, trembling glow. It's not the brilliant, insistent light it used to be when he'd walk through the door. This is something else. Something barely holding on.