Chapter 8
The Miss
Emma didn’t notice it.
Not at first.
The morning unfolded the way mornings always did. Coffee brewed. The shower ran. Mark kissed her on the forehead before leaving for work, his familiar “Love you” floating behind him as the front door clicked shut.
She answered automatically.
“Love you.”
Silence settled over the house.
She rinsed her mug, wiped a drop of water from the counter, straightened the dish towel until its edges lined up with the grout lines beneath it.
Normal.
Everything felt…
Normal.
For a moment, she almost smiled.
Maybe today would be easier.
She spent the morning folding laundry, answering a few emails, and paying bills. She even caught herself humming while she vacuumed the living room.
The rhythm surprised her.
It had been weeks since she’d hummed.
When she finished, she carried the vacuum toward the hallway.
That’s when she saw it.
The bathroom cabinet.
Its door hung open just a few inches.
Emma stopped walking.
The vacuum continued to hum until she switched it off.
Silence.
She stared at the cabinet.
Open.
Mark had been shaving before work.
He’d left it open.
Again.
Her hand reached toward it.
Stopped.
Her stomach tightened.
No.
No…
When had she seen it?
Had she walked past it earlier?
Had she counted it?
Her heartbeat stumbled.
She searched her memory.
Coffee.
Laundry.
Bills.
Vacuum.
Bathroom…
No.
No, no, no.
She couldn’t remember seeing it before this moment.
She couldn’t remember counting it.
Emma slowly closed the cabinet.
Click.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
“What number was that?”
The question slipped from her lips before she realized she’d spoken.
She hurried to the kitchen.
The notebook waited in the drawer.
She pulled it out.
Page after page.
Tiny numbers.
Neat handwriting.
Every mark placed with certainty.
Every correction accounted for.
She flipped back through the previous week.
She frowned.
Was yesterday six hundred eighty-five?
Or had yesterday been six hundred eighty-four?
She looked again.
The numbers blurred.
Her breathing quickened.
“If this was six hundred eighty-six…”
Her finger traced the page.
“…then what was yesterday?”
She closed her eyes.
Think.
Bathroom light.
Sock beside the hamper.
Kitchen cabinet.
Coffee mug left on the table.
No.
That happened two days ago.
Didn’t it?
Or…
Was it last week?
She couldn’t remember.
For years, the count had been the one thing she trusted.
People forgot.
People lied.
People promised.
The count never did.
Until now.
She stood so quickly the chair scraped across the floor.
She walked to the hallway.
Opened the cabinet.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each click landed harder than the last.
“No…”
Her voice cracked.
“I don’t lose count.”
The words sounded foreign.
Desperate.
She checked every room.
Bathroom light.
Kitchen cabinet.
Closet door.
Bedroom drawers.
Everything.
Everything had to tell her where she’d gone wrong.
Nothing did.
By evening, Mark came home carrying takeout.
“I figured neither of us would feel like cooking.”
Emma barely looked up.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He set the bags on the counter.
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
She nodded.
“I’ve noticed.”
He smiled gently.
“I think it’s a good thing.”
She looked at him.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugged.
“You don’t seem so… consumed.”
The word hit her harder than he could have known.
Consumed.
If only he knew.
He reached for a plate.
“You know…”
He laughed softly.
“…maybe it’s time to stop keeping track.”
Emma forced the smallest smile.
“Maybe.”
He kissed the top of her head and carried the food into the dining room.
“I’ll get the drinks.”
When he disappeared around the corner, Emma opened the notebook again.
She stared at the last number she’d written.
Her pencil hovered.
Slowly…
She scratched it out.
Then she wrote it again.
Stopped.
Scratched it out once more.
Again.
Again.
The page filled with faint gray scars.
She turned to a clean sheet.
Blank.
Untouched.
Her pencil touched the paper.
She drew the first straight line.
Paused.
Her hand trembled.
A tear landed beside the unfinished mark.
She whispered so quietly the room almost swallowed the words.
“I don’t know where I lost you.”
She wasn’t speaking to Mark.
She wasn’t speaking to herself.
She was speaking to the count.
After a long moment, she finished the number.
1
She closed the notebook.
Outside, the wind rattled the leaves against the kitchen window.
Inside, the house was perfectly still.
For the first time…
The count hadn’t ended.
It had begun again.