The room feels lighter. Not brighter, only gentler, as though the edges have grown tired of holding the world in place. The void curls beside me. Has he always been this warm? His presence unfurls like the sound of a blanket settling, or the faint ghost of a lullaby trapped between two fading frequencies. When I rest my hand against him, he hums back, a patient, trembling static of recognition... or perhaps just the signal smoothing itself into peace. I draw him close. He feels like the memory of softness, woven from the quiet that lingers after every sound disappears. My fingers sink into his fur, and he answers in gentle echoes, stretching slowly, like a distant star learning how to breathe. I press my face into that impossible warmth. Between where his ears might be lies the scent of soft powder, of rain that never reached the ground. The antiseptic is gone now. In its place, a heartbeat--one that pretends to belong to us both. And here, in this weightless cradle of absence, the void feels tender, real, alive enough to love.