He stared at it, heartbeat hitching.
Sarah never used the chain, not with him coming over, not in the middle of the day.She'd once called it "security theatre" and demonstrated how easy it was to break with a well-placed kick.The chain hanging there now, latched, felt more ominous than a fully barred door.
“Sarah,” he called, raising his voice.“I’m at your front door with the key.You decent?Because I’m coming in unless you tell me otherwise.”
Silence.
He hesitated only a moment, then slipped the key out, closed the door enough to release the tension on the chain, and fumbled at the catch with his fingertips.It slid back reluctantly, clinking against the jamb.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The smell of the house wrapped around him — citrus from the cleaning products she favored, faint bergamot from whatever diffuser oil she was currently evangelizing about, and under it all the dry, warm scent of old wood and book paper.Familiar.Friendly.
It didn’t match the prickle running along his arms.
“Sarah?”he called again, voice echoing slightly down the narrow hallway.“It’s Torres.You oversleep, genius?”
No answer.
The foyer looked exactly as he expected: neat row of shoes on the mat, coats on hooks, a bicycle helmet hanging from a peg.Her light spring jacket was still there; she hadn’t gone out for coffee.Her running shoes, the ugly fluorescent pair she swore made her faster, lined up beneath them.
He reached for the wall switch out of habit, then realized the house was already lit.The pendant in the hallway glowed softly.The living room lamp beyond that was on too, casting an amber spill across the hardwood.
He frowned.
She was frugal with light — not out of miserliness but out of principle.Why illuminate what you’re not using?She'd scolded him once, sweeping through their co-working space, flicking off lamps like an environmental avenging angel.
Leaving multiple lights on in empty rooms was unlike her.
"Okay, this is weird," he said aloud, because narrating things sometimes made them less terrifying."I'm going to keep talking, so if you're home, you know it's me and not a burglar who smells like cheap shampoo and panic."
He moved deeper down the hallway, shoes quiet on the floorboards.
The living room opened up on his left, a familiar sofa, bookcases, and a coffee table.A mug sat on the table — dark ring at the bottom, tea leaves dried against the porcelain.Next to it, her laptop lay open, dark screen reflecting a sliver of window.
A sweater was crumpled on the far arm of the couch.A legal pad lay nearby, uncapped pen bleeding a small galaxy of ink into the top sheet.
“Sarah?”he said again, softer now.“Hey.You okay?”
Nothing.
He resisted the urge to cross to the laptop and wake it, to look for clues in open tabs or unsent drafts.This was still her space, even if she wasn’t in it.Felt like snooping.Besides, if she was upstairs in the shower and came down to find him rifling through her browser history, she’d roast him for a week.
He moved on, past the living room into the small dining area that opened off the kitchen.
A plate with crumbs sat on the dining table.Half a croissant, abandoned mid-bite, lay next to it.Beside that, her phone charger snaked across the wood, unplugged, the cord dangling uselessly over the edge.
He stopped.
Her phone was not on the table.Not in sight.
He checked his own.
Still no replies.
The tight feeling in his chest edged closer to something like fear.
He stepped into the kitchen.
