I came home early. She wasn’t there. Or rather, she was.
I knew straight away she had the Sleeping Sickness because she was still in bed, sleeping.
She looked so young, like the beautiful girl that had saved me from my self-destructive battle with the city, from my self, saved me and made me laugh.
She lay, peacefully sleeping; unmoving, memories filled the room, eluding me, half forgotten, whispered, clipped-winged memories.
Her hands were over her stomach. The walls were breathing for her. The beautiful silence stopped me crying out.
I didn’t understand Sleeping Sickness. I do now.