The silence settles into my bones like the ache in my shoulders—familiar, heavy, something I've stopped trying to shake.

I drop my bag onto the chair. It lands with a soft thud.

Kitchen. Stove. Knife. Cutting board. The motions I've repeated a thousand times, the rhythm I can fall into without thinking. The blade bites into a carrot, and the sound fills the quiet.

Water boils. Sauce simmers. Steam curls up from the pan, and the small, ordinary smells wrap around me like a blanket I didn't know I needed.

The rhythm steadies me.

Chop. Scrape. Stir.

Almost normal.

The lights flicker.

My hand freezes mid-stir, spoon hovering over the pan. I look up at the bulb, watching it settle back into steady glow.

Faulty wiring. Old building. Probably nothing.

I look back down.

The lights flicker again.

This time, my pulse catches. The spoon trembles in my grip. The room feels... wrong. Too still. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

Darkness.

Complete. Absolute. The kind that presses against your eyes, makes you wonder if they're open at all.

Then, light.

Everything is back. Normal. The steam still rises from the pan. The water still bubbles.

And then—a voice.

Low. Deliberate. Close enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.