At first, his guilt came from imagining her hurt somewhere—injured, lost, or waiting for him to find her. But as the days stretched on, the fear changed shape. What if nothing had happened to her at all? What if she’d simply walked away, free of him, and decided never to return? What would become of his life now?
Sleep came in fragments, each dream a distortion of memory. Sometimes she was knocking on the window, and sometimes sitting across from him at dinner, silent, her gaze unblinking. He’d wake gasping, drenched in sweat, whispering her name like a prayer that had no believer.