Viktor..

Consciousness returned before his body. First, there was silence, thick as cotton wool. Then—a slight, aching emptiness in his lower back, a familiar companion. He opened his eyes. The bedroom was plunged into the grayish gloom of predawn.

She slept next to him, her back to him. Her breathing was even and deep, a single lock of dark hair falling onto the pillow like a comma in an unfinished sentence. He looked at the curve of her shoulder beneath the thin fabric and felt a familiar, bittersweet twinge in his chest: admiration and that same quiet unease.

Carefully, with his knuckles, he touched the blanket at her feet—a ritual of checking. All was well. Then he threw back his own. The chill of the morning air embraced him, causing him to cringe slightly. He stood, his bare feet touching the cool dark wood floor. His body, thin in gray pajama pants and a loose T-shirt, straightened with the familiar, subtle stiffness—the first axiom of a new day.

He walked into the bathroom as silently as a shadow. He closed the door and flicked the switch. Soft, diffused light filled the small space of white marble and dark wood.

He walked over to the sink, rested his palms on it, and looked up at his reflection in the mirror. There he was. Long hair, tangled from sleep, with silver streaks at his temples. Dark circles under his eyes—the traces not so much of sleeplessness as of deep thought. Sharp features, softened by fatigue.