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I stepped through the front door and felt it before anyone said a word. The house was tidy. Sunlight came in clean through the front windows, the kitchen smelled like coffee, nothing was out of place. And yet the air in the living room sat heavy, the way a room feels when it has been holding its breath for a long time. The family who lived there had been through a hard winter, an illness, then a loss, then the slow exhaustion that follows both. They had cleaned every surface.

The old cat had not let anyone near her in three days. She sat at the far edge of the room, shoulders drawn in, watching me the way animals watch when something hurts. I lowered myself to the floor a few feet away, rested my hands open in my lap, and did nothing at all. I simply breathed and let the Reiki settle around the room. After a while her ears softened. Then her eyes. By the time the light in the window had shifted, she had crossed the floor on her own and pressed her

You drove home from a friend's house and something felt wrong. Not with her, not with you, but the heaviness in your chest that had arrived sometime around hour two of the visit had no clear source. You hadn't been sad walking in. By the time you pulled into your driveway, you felt exhausted in a way that a full night of sleep couldn't touch. You poured a glass of water, sat down at the kitchen table, and realized, slowly, that what you were carrying had been hers. That momen