If a patrol car had appeared, I would not have stopped.
If a wall had risen in front of me, I would have hit it head-on. Nothing mattered except movement. Forward. Always forward.
By the time the gates of the estate recognized my plates and slid open, my hands were numb on the wheel.
The house loomed ahead—vast, illuminated, immaculate.
A mausoleum.
I didn’t bother with lights inside. I knew the layout better than my own pulse. My feet carried me unerringly through the halls, past rooms that still held the echo of her presence, straight to the bedroom wing I had pretended wasn’t ours.
Her side of the wardrobe.
She had never gone back for her things from that cramped apartment she’d called home before me.
Never asked. Never complained. She had worn Amy’s old sweaters instead—soft knits stretched thin with time, simple dresses that didn’t scream money or protection or ownership.
Clothes chosen to disappear in. Clothes that said, Don’t look at me too closely. I don’t belong here.
I slid the wardrobe door open.
The scent hit me immediately.
Jasmine. Rain. Paper. Warm skin.
Elena.
My knees weakened. I grabbed the nearest sweater and crushed it to my face, inhaling like a drowning man breaking the surface at last.
The smell cut straight through my chest, sharp and sweet and already fading, like the last note of a song you realize too late you loved.
Something in me fractured completely.
I pulled more clothes free—dresses, blouses, scarves—letting them spill onto the floor as I dug deeper, frantic, desperate.
I buried my face in silk and cotton, clutching armfuls to my chest as if I could conjure her body through fabric and memory.As if holding the things she had worn could somehow absolve me of what I had done to the woman herself.
My breath came apart in broken gasps.
Then something slipped from the pile and fell to the floor with a soft, accusing thud.
I froze.
A slim, leather-bound book lay at my feet, its spine worn smooth, corners rounded from being handled too often.
Not expensive. Not decorative. Private.
A diary.
My heart began to hammer violently, each beat echoing in my ears. I bent slowly, as though sudden movement might shatter it, and lifted it with trembling fingers.
The leather was warm.
I carried it to the bed with reverence bordering on terror, placed it carefully at the center of the mattress, and just... stared.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time meant nothing anymore.
Finally, I sat on the edge of the bed.
