Damon awoke as if emerging from the bottom of a dark, silent lake, dragged back to the surface only because his body could no longer sustain so much rest. For a few seconds, he lay motionless, staring at the bedroom ceiling without immediately recognizing it. The light filtering through the curtains was no longer that of the gentle dawn he had left behind, nor that of the lazy mid-morning. It was the slanted, golden light of late afternoon, mature and almost melancholic, cruelly revealing that he had slept for an entire day.
He let out a hoarse groan, turned his head, and found only traces of the battle fought in the bed. Crumpled sheets, pillows thrown haphazardly, a forgotten glass on the side table, the lingering scent of skin and warmth still clinging to the fabric. None of the women were there. The silence of the room seemed strange after the previous night, as if someone had removed all the music from a party and left only the echo.
