Chapter 11: Beneath the surface

That evening, the sun had already begun to set, casting an amber hue across the living room when Micheal pushed the door open. His face was drawn and tired, the weight of the day dragging his shoulders down. As he stepped inside and shut the door, his eyes immediately swept across the living room. Empty.

No scent of food. No soft hum from the kitchen. No slippers by the couch.

"Did she finally get the memo... and leave?" he muttered under his breath, already imagining the silence as a form of freedom.

He wandered to the kitchen, half-hoping to find something to eat, but the pots were gleaming — empty, washed, and dried. He stood there for a moment, perplexed.

Then he heard faint sounds — not from the TV, but from upstairs.

Climbing the staircase, he walked toward the bedroom. There, seated at the edge of the bed, was Sandra — radiant in a silky black dress, her face glowing as she applied a touch of blush in front of the mirror.

She looked up, met his eyes through the mirror, and smiled warmly.

“Hey, honey. How was work today?”

Micheal barely muttered, “Fine,” as he peeled off his clothes, tossed them carelessly into the hamper, and turned away. But he couldn’t ignore the subtle shift in her energy — she wasn’t sulking, she wasn’t crying, she wasn’t asking questions. She looked… elevated. Confident. Unbothered.