Mornings like this were their rhythm: her humming, his phone buzzing on the counter, the easy comfort of two people who’d built something steady together. After breakfast, she packed her sketchbooks for class. Her students — a lively group of paint-smeared dreamers — were her favorite part of the week. Lately, though, she’d been tired more often.
Maybe stress. Maybe the long hours. She didn’t think much of it. By afternoon, the park below their apartment glowed gold in the autumn light. Clara walked home through it, sketching colors in her mind. Everything was ordinary. Exactly as it should be. She didn’t know that sometimes, the worst things begin quietly.