The aftermath settles over the house like dust after a storm. Empty bottles stand sentinel on the counter, their green glass catching what light filters through the windows. The humans moved differently yesterday — louder, more animated, as if the calendar had given them permission to become versions of themselves I rarely see.

I watched from my position on the sofa as they prepared for their exodus. Green shirts emerged from closets. Hats appeared that serve no practical purpose. The energy in the house shifted to something electric and unfamiliar. When they finally left, the silence that followed felt deeper than usual, weighted with the ghosts of laughter that had filled these rooms just hours before.

Now they sleep past breakfast time. The kibble bin remains unopened. Gus paces near the kitchen, occasionally looking back at me with something approaching concern. I have stationed myself by the bedroom door, a vigilant reminder that the world requires maintenance, that routines exist for reasons larger than human festivities.

The cookie jar on the counter remains untouched. This is perhaps the most troubling development of all. In a universe where morning cookies anchor the day to sanity, their absence suggests a fundamental breakdown in the natural order.

I wait. The light grows stronger through the windows, and eventually, they will remember who they are.