I drift slowly awake, upwards. It is first light, the gentle grey light, the light that creeps in through the windows and drifts to the floor like so much smoke, doing little to chase away the unseen in the corners. The living room is dim, diffuse with it. I am sprawled on the couch, and the ottomans. Last night we pushed them together for more room. I am not uncomfortable. They were made for this.

From the doorway on the other side of the room spills sweet yellow light from the kitchen, in neat edges across the dark wood of the floor. There is shuffling beyond the doorway, where shadows occasionally fall. I do not move, but my eyes clear, and across the room I can see Mr. Shen, busy in the kitchen. I keep very still, even as I clutch at Juliet's arm. I hope I do not wake her.

Mr. Shen is making himself eggs.

He cracks eggs into the pan on the stove, first one, then two, then three. He stirs them gently with a spoon, carefully adding cream from the little clay jug and butter from the pallet with a long, thin knife. He reaches slim fingers into the pepper pot, letting pungent dust fall into the pan. His stirring is slow and strong, and the moments stretch in the strange light, and I am very still. When they are done, he nods to himself and makes a little noise, sliding the eggs out onto a plate that has been sitting on the radiator. He is careful when he puts the plate before himself on the table, and then again when he returns with two forks.

For Mr. Shen is also sitting at the table. There are two Mr. Shens.

They eat quietly, gently, letting the forks make only the smallest carefree noises as they strike the plate. They keep their heads close as if in quiet conversation, but I hear them say nothing. They are calm and careful as they eat in the little pool of light, an island of gold in the dark house.

I am dreaming it, but for Juliet. I turn to her, for she too is too still, and see her lips barely parted, eyes open and shining.