Our bedroom beneath a rain-washed morning sky.
The old green navigation lamp on the landing.
Noah stopped.
“There.”
I leaned closer without touching him. “What?”
“The lamp.”
I looked at the photograph.
The brass fixture held thick green glass, clouded by age. The hallway appeared as a dark reflection in it.
“That is the one from your dream,” I said.
“Yes.”
He enlarged the image.
His breathing changed.
“I know this.”
Hope surged so fiercely I almost leaned into it.
Instead, I kept my voice calm.
“Do you know where it is?”
He shut his eye.
“Near wood.”
“The stair landing.”
“There’s someone behind me.”
His breath shortened.
“Don’t push.”
“I’m not.”
He pressed two fingers to his temple.
“It’s close.”
“What is?”
“Something.”
The word emerged strained and indistinct.
“Stop.”
His eye opened, bright with anger.
