Hugo awoke at nine, having slept badly. Not because of any noise, although the dawn chorus had woken him at five, and occasional muffled sounds did emanate from what was presumably Julia’s bedroom. No, Hugo was used to noises at night.
That was the problem. Hugo could sleep through a traffic jam, revving their engines and honking their horns: he had, once, on a road trip, while an ex drove him and kicked him awake occasionally out of jealousy. Remove the traffic noise, though, and the eerie silence wouldn’t let his mind rest. It kept waiting for a car that barely ever came.
It generated ideas for his novella instead. As he became more and more tired, they became more and more outlandish. Now, stumbling out of bed and the house, he couldn’t remember any of them.