The funny thing about time is how easily it softens its edges when you're not looking.
What began as an overnight stay here and there—logistical, convenient—had turned into something else. Not loud. Not official. But quiet and rooted in ways that made my chest ache, sometimes.
The guest room wasn't just a guest room anymore. My coat hung over the back of the chair, a few folded clothes sat on top of the dresser like they belonged. My toothbrush rested in the upstairs bathroom. There was a bottle of my favourite shampoo in the shower, something Liz had teased me about bringing, but it didn't feel like a joke now.
These were the things that didn't say "I'm visiting."
They said, "I'm here."
I'd asked to shift most of my work remote, not just a day here or there, but a more permanent arrangement. Mark asked if I needed help with it, but no one questioned it much. I had earned the trust, and the truth was, my heart wasn't in the city these days; it hadn't been for a while.
