It is not the hunger of the body that wakes me, but the hunger of the room. The walls seem to want something I cannot name. A window left open, perhaps. Or a voice that has not yet arrived.

I make tea I do not finish. I turn pages I do not read. The hunger moves through the house like a cat, pausing at corners, watching.

Some nights I leave a plate on the table, just in case. In the morning it is untouched, and I am both relieved and disappointed.