Chilly. Dimitri would have been up by now. The stove would have been hot and there would have been a kettle waiting for morning tea. The dogs would be silently sleeping under the table. But the warmth of the household was missing.
Even the creaks of the worn floor planks muffled and swollen by tears. The few steps to the chabudai were shrouded in velvet, solemn in grieving the master of electronics.
Dewdrops levitating above the bed in a dreamcatcher made of spider silk.
Who else would leave a message as delicate?