Splinter.

The sleep, dazed and interrupted, moving in the syrupy night room, consciousness taking no prisoners. As she reached her hand on the doorjamb, a tiny splinter rebelled against the old wood and pricked her finger. This simple, tiny obstruction broke her sleep-walking journey, destination: a glass of water, pure and clear. The sharp sting was the only honesty she found in her restlessness. She was thirsty. Greedy, parched, lips kept her from dreams, and in her dreams, they moved just...out...of...step. Sync. She realized, with a tiny, cold seed, he wasn't home. And in that ditch of doubt, the gully where faith and knowledge bottomed out, she needed to stay, until. Until she woke up.