Franz woke to pale daylight and the scent of her everywhere.
The curtains were white and sheer, and the morning light came through them in a thin, even wash — the kind of light that didn't commit to anything yet. No warmth. Just presence. He lay on his back for a moment with his eyes at the ceiling, getting his bearings. Same height, same cornice as his room. The layout identical. Everything else foreign. Her sheets. Her pillow. The low weight of her arm crossed over his ribs, loose now in sleep, the way it would never be when she was awake. Her arm. In her room. He let that sit for a second. Just a second.
He turned his head. Arianne was asleep.
