Death is sitting on my ex-husband's willow tree.
Every chilly morning. Every starry night when the clouds clear. Always.
And that Death isme.
My eyes fix on a single window that stretches from the center of the house to its outeredge—a massive pane of glass framing the life I once knew. From my spot in the garden, I can see everything. His cold, gray desk. The pristine stack of papers, perfectly aligned. A neat row of picture frames lined up at the edge.
Him.
Sitting in his office, composed as ever. Back straight, expression controlled—like even the mind-numbing monotony of accounting requires a performance. As if some invisible eyes are always on him, cameras tracking his every move. Like his very existence is meant to be observed, admired, studied.
And he’s right.
Because Iamwatching.
Sometimes, I wonder if he can feel it—my dead gaze upon him. If the sudden stillness in his shoulders, the barely noticeable hitch in his breath, means something deep inside him stirs. Some primal instinct whispering:
You are not alone.
I want him to know.
I want him to feel it deep in his bones, to sense the way I pick him apart from my perch, stripping away the pristine layers of his perfect little life. I wait for a crack—for guilt to slip through the stiff set of his jaw, to coil beneath his neatly combed hair, to show in the slightest betrayal of his fingers as they falter on that spotless desk. Just once. All I need is one tiny sign.
But he never falters. At least not while he’s awake.
No, the cracks only show when he's fast asleep. When Jessica is curled up beside him, unaware of the monster lying next to her.
Because during the night, he is bare. The mask he wears is gone, only nightmares remain.
And he has a lot of them.
Something stirs in the room next to his office. The curtains shift, then part, and Jessica’s delicate face appears, her gaze locking onto mine.
For a brief little moment, she looks like she can see me—the mare haunting her husband. But, of course, she can’t.
Judging by the way her perfect lips press into a frown, however, she can see my companions.
Dozens of pretty little crows sitting on the willow tree.
And in a perfect Jessica fashion, she cannot let it go. A moment later, she steps into his office doorway requiring his attention. She is wrapped in silk pajamas, blonde hair cascading in effortless waves down her back. Even half-asleep, she’s flawless. Sculpted. Untouched by something as human as morning grogginess.
Back when I was alive, I didn’t think people like her were real. I always figured they spent hours perfecting themselves—waking up at dawn to do their hair and makeup, just to keep their high-and-mighty husbands happy. But it turns out my ex-husband’s new wife is just… perfect like that. No effort required.
He’s found the opposite of me.
But I guess that’s beside the point.
She plants her delicate hands on her hips and huffs, pouting just a little, molding her body just right so the waist shows. And he tips his chin up, eyes sliding from his papers to his wife. From her legs to her waist to her breasts and finally… to her face.
Once, he hated interruptions. Disruptions made him rigid. Frigid. Cold. If I spoke at the wrong time—if I so much as breathed in his carefully curated moments of peace—his displeasure wrapped around me like thorns.
But for her?
He just smiles.
Soft. Easy. Like her presence is a blessing. Like she belongs there, slipping into his world without consequence. Unbothered.
She says something—but I can’t hear her. Not from this distance.
