She woke up Sunday to sunlight.

Proper sunlight — the kind that came through the window at an angle and landed across the bed in a warm stripe and meant the rain had finally given up. She lay in it for a moment and felt it on her face and felt his arm around her and felt the room.

Their room.

Same room it had always been. Two desks, two wardrobes, the biscuits on the windowsill, the print he had bought at the market leaning against the wall because they still hadn't hung it. Same room and entirely different and she had been in it for eight weeks and felt...