By the sixth day, I stop pretending I can distract myself.
It's not that I don't try, I still sketch, still pick up books I don't finish, still walk through the estate like there's something new to find, but none of it holds for long.
The restlessness has settled in properly now, not sharp enough to be panic, not loud enough to be a spiral, just constant, like something under my skin I can't quite reach.
By midday, even that feels like too much effort.
So I stop trying.
That's how I end up outside Bael's home office.
The door is half-open, not unusual, he doesn't like being completely shut off when he's working from home, just enough distance to keep interruptions controlled.
I can hear his voice from where I stand, low and even, the kind of tone that doesn't need to rise to command attention.
He's on a call.
I should leave.
I don't.
