The soft light of morning made for a smooth transition back to the world, but Natalie's memories quickly fell into place like a rough-cut puzzle. Jagged pieces taking the shape of,"Lilith . . . and a beach . . . and Pete, and the ocean, and the two scary—"

  "Wait!" Natalie shot up in bed. "Pete," she said, turning to find her husband. He wasn't there. Only an empty space where he'd slept.

  She started to panic. But before she could call out again, she heard the shower turn on from the bathroom. "Ok," she said, her body relaxing. "Calm down. Just a dream."

  But still...

  She couldn't shake the unsettling need to "check in" with him. "I want to see for myself." she thought. “I’ve got to look in his eyes and know that he's safe."

  A few minutes later, he came into the bedroom. Natalie watched him at his closet. The warning from the strange woman in her dream, ringing like an alarm in her mind.

  "He's going to be hurting on the inside, even if he doesn't show it." That's what Lilith had said.

  "Hey," Natalie stammered. "You . . . doing ok?" She regretted it as soon as the words came out. But there they were, and it was too late.

  "Yeah, I'm good," Pete answered casually.

  …

  "Rehearsed." That was her first thought. And she watched him shake out a shirt before slipping it on. "He didn't even look at me. That's kind of weird, right?"

  But then Pete stopped, hands on his waist, and sighed. "Sorry, Nat," he apologized, sensing her suspicion. "Actually, the mornings are pretty rough for me. Kind of like my head is buzzing. Happens every day. I just didn't want you to worry."

  He glanced at her over his shoulder and smiled.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "But it gets better as the day goes on," he tried to reassure her. "I think it just takes a little time in the morning for my brain to catch up with all the weird stuff. Like, the bad feelings don't ever need to sleep, but I still do." He paused. "But I'm trying some new things that I think are going to help."

  And then, looking slightly embarrassed, he added, "I, uh . . . prayed that Rosary thing a little bit ago."

  It took Natalie a second to register what he was talking about. "Rosary thing?" she asked. "Oh right! I remember now. Sorry," she walked to the dresser. "How was it?"

  Sifting through her clothes, she did her best to appear unworried, but at the same time, was ready to analyze whatever her husband said next.

  "It wasn't bad," Pete started. "I mean, I didn't 'feel' anything, but it was ok. It's not really one big prayer. It's a whole bunch of prayers that you go through in a pattern. Takes about fifteen minutes or so." He put on his jeans. "It was kind of nice. Putting my mind on something else."

  The cadence of his voice was a tell. He was expecting to be judged.

  "Should I be worried?" she wondered. "He does have a tendency to hyper-fixate on things. Working out, guitar, online poker. And religious stuff seems like a weird suggestion from a therapist."

  "That's good," she finally responded, masking her trepidation. "It sounds kind of like exercise."

  "Yeah," Pete agreed. "It's like a mental exercise. And I mean, look, it's not like I don't believe in God, so . . . can't hurt, right?" He stepped out of the bedroom to go make his usual morning tea. "And even if there is no God, still ... can't hurt," he called from the kitchen.

  Natalie stayed behind, absently thumbing through outfits, silently assessing her spouse's mental state.

  "He's going to have to go back out there." Lilith had told her.

  "Black waters," Natalie whispered to herself.

  And that was the pattern the next two days. Natalie overanalyzing each word and action. What Pete watched on television. When he laughed (or didn't laugh) at a joke. How much he ate for lunch and dinner.

  She didn't confront him or ask him about his "mind stuff." She was able to at least restrain from that, but she was constantly thinking about it. Continuously fighting the urge to put him on the spot. The contradicting emotions that anyone experiences when worried about someone they love.

  However, as the weekend came to a close, she also noticed that there were moments when he was more himself.

  Broken? Certainly.

  Hurting? Probably more than she could know.

  Yet it was still him inside. The real him. Glimpses that she occasionally caught. His humor, his kindness. Just not quite full strength.

  "He can do this ...can't he?" she wondered, climbing into bed that Sunday night. But she fell asleep with no answers, exhausted by a weekend of vigilance. And much to her surprise, there were no dreams.