It started like any other morning.
The apartment was still quiet when I got up. The light coming through the kitchen window was soft and gray, filtered by the clouds that hadn't decided whether they were staying or going. I made coffee half-asleep, barefoot on the cool tile floor, the hum of the machine steady and low.
My inbox had filled up overnight even if it was saturday, but nothing urgent. A few project updates, a rescheduled meeting, some budget notes. I answered the first couple without thinking, my fingers moving automatically, my mug warm in my other hand.
It wasn't until I opened my calendar that I felt it.
I'd only clicked in to check if I something planned for today. I thought I was forgetting something—maybe a deadline, maybe that dinner Liz had mentioned offhand last week. But the date stopped me.
August, 14.
At first, it was just numbers on a screen. Nothing remarkable. But then it hit me, quiet and brutal.
