In the place between sleeping and waking, she stands in the corner and watches the two of them beneath the tangle of sheets, turned away from each other with little sleep frowns on their faces.
She sees the threads between them, flickering little lights of their history. There is gravity there, inexorable, insubstantial forces, powerful but so very fragile. Their time is drawing close. She feels sad.
With a raised hand, she parts the threads. They break so easily, like spider silk, falling onto the space between the sleeping lovers. There is no sound, but she knows she’s shattered something.