On a Monday morning, they slept in a darkened bedroom, warm, heavy bodies wrapped together. Beyond their bed and past the closed door, the sun spilled in through the east-facing windows, flooding the bathroom and the short connecting hallway that led to the open living space, where it soaked the lounge, the dining nook, and the small kitchen. Dust motes floated in sunbeams. All their things—the books on the shelf, the mug on the table, the shoes on the floor, the room’s sentimental decorative objects—solid and real, shone in the light, as did the walls, which were white and where they were supposed to be. Everything was still, and whatever disturbed the couple who slept in the darkened room did so slowly and quietly and with great patience.  


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