I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time without moving.
The room is bright now. Morning settled in properly while I was too busy being angry to notice it arriving, and the light coming through the curtains is the flat, honest kind that doesn't flatter anything.
My body hurts.
Not dramatically. Just the specific, deep ache of muscles used past their usual limit, soreness that sits low in my back and radiates outward whenever I shift position. I'm aware of it the way you're aware of a bruise, constantly, involuntarily, every small movement bringing it back before I can forget it again.
I don't want to think about why it hurts.
I think about it anyway.
I press both hands flat against my knees and stare at the door.
Nobody has knocked.
I don't know whether I expected someone to. Mrs. Wen usually appears eventually, with tea, with food, with some small errand that isn't really an errand. The quiet concern she delivers without naming it.
