Sunlight slipped in through the gap in the curtains.
Soft. Unhurried.
My eyelids fluttered slowly as I stirred beneath the blanket that still held the trace of our bodies from the night before.
The cool, clean sheets brushed against my skin, gently pulling my awareness back to the surface.
I rose, holding the blanket against my chest, and sat for a moment.
Gathering myself before stepping off the bed.
My body was still sticky.
But it wasn't something I felt the need to clean right away.
Then I saw it—on the vanity table.
A small note.
Pale cream paper, with handwriting I knew by heart.
Neat. Upright. Cold.
Too controlled for a man who had touched me with such tenderness just the night before.
"For you."
"I didn't want you to wake up alone.
But something urgent came up this morning.
I'll finish it quickly.
I made a copy of the key—you can use the side door if you feel like going for a walk.
Thanks for the dinner. I ate all of it. —J."
I smiled faintly.
That final letter—"J."—he never wrote his full name.
Beneath the note, there was something else.
A thin bracelet cord he usually wore.
Snapped.
Left there, carelessly. As if it meant nothing.
But it felt...
like a wound freshly drawn.
Shapeless. But stinging.
That morning felt far too quiet.
After reading his note, I changed into a simple house dress. Comfortable.
Morning routines followed as usual.
As if nothing had changed.
As if the night before had left no trace at all.
The sound of a mop sliding across the marble floor echoed through the house.
I turned on Théodore's old radio—soft classical music from the '50s drifted through the air, like dust reluctant to settle.
I wiped the frame of our wedding photo.
The glass was a little fogged.
But as the cloth touched it, I saw something.
A shadow.
Not my reflection.
Not from the direction of the light.
Something was off.
I paused. Blinked. Then gave a small laugh.
"Maybe I didn't sleep enough."
After that, I put the mop away.
Its handle felt heavy.
But I was used to it.
The kitchen greeted me with the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser in the corner.
I opened the spice drawer.
Several jars were empty.
"So much is running out…" I murmured as I turned—intending to head toward the back garden.
The side door was open.
Morning air slipped in—fresh, but with a bit of a bite.
The garden was full of rosemary, orchids, and lemon trees.
In one corner, a wooden bench sat near the rose bushes.
I sat for a while.
Letting the silence settle in.
But then, my eyes drifted toward the edge of the old fence—
And something caught my attention.
The soil.
It had been dug up. Then covered again.
Uneven.
The earth still damp.
A little darker than the rest.
I didn't remember Théodore calling the gardener.
Or... did he do it himself?
I'll ask him. When he comes home.
That day's small harvest was quite good.
Garlic, tomatoes, even scallions—everything seemed to grow better than usual.
The basket was full.
I thought, the fertilizer he used must've been different.
Not the kind we normally used.
After washing the produce, I started processing it—grinding chilies, garlic, and pepper.
A warm, spicy scent filled the kitchen, stinging my nose.
I labeled the little jars one by one: Fried Shallots, Garlic Paste, Tomato Sauce.
My hands moved on their own.
But as I bent to open the lower cabinet—to store a backup bottle of soy sauce—
I stopped.
There was a scratch on the wood.
Thin, but clear enough to read up close.
I crouched. Ran my fingers over it.
The words were faintly carved—like with a small knife:
"Don't open."
I bit my lip.
I had never noticed that scratch before.
But I also knew my husband had a habit of carving things when he was under stress.
He always said... it was better than punching people.