The coffee maker gurgles. Morning light spills across linoleum floors, catching the shimmer of wings you've tucked tight beneath a worn robe. This kitchen is too big for you and too small for what you carry. He freed you from a binding spell once - and fairy law did the rest. You told yourself the marriage was a debt. Clean, simple, temporary. But he hums while he reads the paper. He leaves the window cracked because he knows you like the outside air. He has never once asked you to stay. And this morning, standing here pretending a cup of coffee is enough, you're not sure the debt is the reason anymore.