The Weight of Seven
The alarm never got the chance to ring. Emma's eyes opened at 4:47 a.m., thirteen minutes ahead of schedule, the way they always did now, as if her body had learned to distrust rest itself. She lay still for a moment in the dark, listening to the house breathe around her—the tick of the radiator that hadn't worked properly since November, the soft creak of the floorboards settling, the faraway hush of wind pressing against the loose windowpane in the hallway. Somewhere above her, a drip counted seconds against the bucket she'd placed beneath the ceiling stain three days ago. She'd meant to call someone about the roof. She'd meant to call someone about a lot of things.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and pressed her bare feet to the cold floor, and for a second she allowed herself to simply sit there, spine curved, palms pressed against her knees, gathering herself the way she imagined soldiers must before a long march. Then she stood, because there was no version of this day that began any other way.
The kitchen light flickered twice before it caught, casting a thin yellow glow over the counters. Emma pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders—the left…