3
Grace.
It was raining. And it was not a gentle drizzle or a moody sprinkle, but stormy. Heavy drops slammed the windows like they were mad at the glass, thunder cracked open the sky in jagged bursts, and the house, big as it was, suddenly felt smaller.
Sophie had gone to bed early. She’d curled into me during her bedtime story, the sound of the storm making her sleepy faster than usual. Daniel had checked in once to say goodnight, his voice low and rough at her door, before disappearing back downstairs with a bottle of wine and whatever was waiting for him on his laptop.
I sat in the guest nook for a while pretending to read, but every flash of lightning lit the room just enough to keep me distracted. I gave up around ten, padded downstairs in fuzzy socks, and followed the smell of
