The sun did not ask permission.
It simply arrived — pale and indifferent, threading through the gap in the curtains in a single clean blade of gold that fell directly across the ruined bed.
Kira lay where he had left her.
White dress — the same one from yesterday, which felt like a word from another language now — bunched up above her hips, twisted and damp and thoroughly finished as a garment.
Her legs were spread wide, knees fallen outward, soles facing each other in a frog-flat sprawl that her muscles had simply chosen at some point in the night and lacked the will to undo.
Both holes sat open.
Not dramatically — just quietly, honestly open, the way a door stays open after the wind has passed through it long enough. A thin, white thread ran from each, catching the morning light like glaze on porcelain before meeting the sheet below.
The white bed sheet told the story she couldn't.
