On the dresser beside us, the Braun ear thermometer sat in its plastic cradle, the digital screen dark after displaying ninety-eight point four degrees at noon.

June stirred once, her tiny hand reaching up to grasp my collar, her knuckles pink and steady against the cotton fabric.

I did not check my phone or listen for footsteps in the hallway.

There were no stray receipts tucked into messenger bags on the floor, no hidden messages sent under steering wheels, and no whispered phone calls around corridor corners.

The house held a stillness I had not felt since October, clean and uncomplicated.