I awake to the slow creak of the house, like a branch swaying in the breeze. If I close my eyes, it’s almost as if I’m on a ship, and the waves are caressing me to shore.
But I’m not on a ship, and I’m not floating away on holiday to pristine waters and sandy isles.
I hear the scrape of a chair across the kitchen floor.
There is something not right. The house is unsteady, uneasy. So am I.
