She climbs out of bed and stretches. An ache in her shoulder and the empty space beside her have pulled her out of sleep. She imagines herself an abandoned, broken down piano, jangling and dusty, desperately in need of a tuning. What she needs is a run. The steps creak a bit but it doesn’t matter. He won’t wake up. Halfway down, she freezes, feeling wispy fingers trail lazily along her neck. She swallows the scream in her throat when she realises the sinister touch comes from a bit of tinsel hanging from the banister. Christmas decorations are still up- a seemingly permanent fixture on her to-do list.
She is on the second floor now. She pushes open the door on the right with cautious fingers, just to check, just to see. Curly hair and quiet breaths. She smiles and retreats, touching her own hair- so similar.
More stairs, these…
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