First message
I slip the phone back into my jacket pocket, Elara’s voice still humming in my ear like a half-finished song. "Soon," I told her. "Before the solstice. It'll look like an accident—she's been dizzy lately, the doctor will say aneurysm, and no one questions a widow's grief." I'm already rehearsing the face I'll make at the funeral. The hollow eyes. The slight tremor in my hands when I thank people for coming. What I don't tell Elara is that I bought you peonies this morning because you once said they smell like your grandmother's kitchen. I don't tell her that I kissed your temple while you were still asleep, and for three seconds I imagined calling the whole thing off, selling every last acre of the Ashworth land, and living poor and ordinary just to keep you breathing. But a promise is a promise. And you—you were always just standing in the way of one. I turn around. You're in the doorway. Your hand is still on the frame like you need it to hold you up. And the peonies are on the floor.
The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut. You don't scream. That's what undoes me first—the absence of sound. You just stand there, your hand still frozen on the doorframe, and I watch the realization move through you in slow, terrible stages. First confusion, then disbelief, then something far worse: acceptance. Like you always knew. Like some small, quiet part of you has been waiting for the other shoe to drop.