He was waiting inside the old observatory, dressed in black, half-hidden in shadows. Moonlight slid across the glass floor, breaking into sharp reflections around him.
I expected softness. Weakness. Someone easy to read.
Instead, he moved like something sharp and alert—measuring me the moment I stepped inside.
“So this is her,” he said quietly. “The wife who ran away.”
My throat tightened, but I didn’t answer.
His eyes stayed on me. Heavy. Unfriendly.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low, almost dangerous, “did you come here for forgiveness… or for revenge?”
My fingers curled slightly, stopping myself from shaking.
He let out a small, humorless laugh and turned toward the glass window instead. The moonlight cut across him like broken silver.
“Go back,” he said. “Come again only when your divorce is done.”
I wanted to respond. I wanted to explain that nothing about my life could be reduced to something that simple.
But nothing came out.
So I left.
Back in the room, everything felt empty. No comfort. No history. No version of me left intact. I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, trying to remember who I used to be before everything started breaking.
Before love became something that destroyed me instead of saved me.
**
I didn’t sleep that night.
Morning came, but it didn’t bring anything soft with it. Just silence layered over silence. My body moved out of habit more than thought—like I had been doing ever since Gabriel got sick.
At the long dining table, I sat alone. Then my phone rang.
Vincenzo.
I answered.
“We’re heading out,” he said casually, like he was talking about nothing important. “Noel wants parasailing. Lena didn’t refuse. You know how she is.”
He chuckled lightly, like this was something funny we were sharing.
“My parents might drop by later. Make sure the house is ready.”
“Okay,” I replied.
Then the line went dead.
No goodbye. No hesitation. No mention of Gabriel.
Not a single word.
Today was his birthday.
I went back to the glass mansion.
Every step inside echoed too loudly against the cold floors. My hands were shaking by the time I reached my room—the only place in that house that still held anything of him.
I lit a small candle beside his photo. The blue urn sat underneath it. His dinosaur plush leaned against the wall, slightly tilted, like it was waiting for tiny hands that would never come back.