Morning comes in quietly. Light slides across the floor and stops at the edge of the bed. Pipes tick once inside the wall, and somewhere down the hallway a door closes softly.

On the chair beside the window, a clean shirt waits.

Owen pulls it over his head slowly, first one arm and then the other. The fabric settles across his shoulders, but the seam at the collar does not. When he turns his head, it presses lightly against the back of his neck. It is not sharp, only present enough that he keeps noticing it each time he moves.

Owen stands still for a moment and rolls his shoulders once. The seam moves with him. He reaches back with two fingers and pulls the collar away from his skin, letting cool air touch the back of his neck for a second before the fabric settles back again into the same place.

He sits on the edge of the bed and presses his feet against the cold wooden floor until the feeling steadies there. Then he lifts the collar once more and folds the fabric inward carefully with his thumb. He smooths the fold flat and waits to see if it will stay.

This time it does.

Owen stands and turns his head slowly from side to side. The seam is still there, but softer now and no longer pulling at his attention the same way.

In the kitchen, the kettle clicks on and a spoon taps once against the inside of a mug. Owen pulls his sweatshirt over the shirt and turns his head again. Nothing drags against his skin.

At the front door, he sits down to tie his shoes. The laces slide through his fingers, rough and familiar. When he stands again, the folded seam remains exactly where he left it.

Outside, the morning air moves evenly across the back of his neck as he steps onto the porch. The seam stays folded, and the morning continues around him.