The sounds became louder after that.
Maybe I noticed them more because I was angry. Maybe James had stopped being careful. Either way, every noise felt like proof.
At 1:17 a.m., I heard a heavy thump.
Then another.
Then a low, frustrated sound—James’s voice, though I couldn’t make out the words.
My heart started pounding.
I sat up in bed, gripping the blanket.
Another scrape echoed down the hallway.
That was it.
Fear pushed me farther than pride ever could.
I reached for my wheelchair, locked the brakes beside the bed, and transferred slowly. Pain shot through my lower back, sharp enough to make me pause and breathe through clenched teeth.
But I kept going.
The hallway looked different at night. Longer. Colder. The framed photos on the wall seemed to watch me pass.
There was one from our wedding.
One from our first camping trip.
One from the hospital, six months after the accident, when James had surprised me with a cake because I managed to transfer into the car without help.
I stopped in front of that photo.
We looked exhausted.
But happy.
“What happened to us?” I whispered.
Then another sound came from the guest room.
A soft crash.
I rolled forward.
This time, when I touched the knob, it turned.
Unlocked.
My breath caught.
“James?” I called softly.
No answer.
I pushed the door open.
