So these empty rooms, this lonely house, they tear me from the inside.
It’s a kind of ache that only comes from loving someone.
And I love him. Same as he loves me.
I shake my head, reminding myself that these empty rooms aren’t the end for us. We haven’t truly lost anything. There’s still plenty of time to start a family, live in a cute house, and have tons of kids and dogs together.
Before we have any of that, I have to figure out what’s going on.
At the first turn down the hallway, I take a right, to where, hopefully, I’ll stumble across paperwork.
The only place to find that must be either in a safe in Duncan’s bedroom or in his office.
My hunch tells me his bedroom isn’t down this hall. Just in case I’m wrong, I stay quiet as I go on as I keep opening door after door.
I push the door to the last room, and the scent of Duncan’s cologne fills my lungs before I set foot inside. When I switch on the light, I see, not just smell, that I’ve made it.
I’m in his office.
Unlike most of the other rooms, this place is alive. Two antique leather armchairs sit side by side on a thick rug. A heavy, dark-wood desk has been pushed against one wall.
A single, massive painting hangs on the opposite wall. Without knowing why, my feet carry me closer. A shiver runs through me as I stop in front of it. My breath catches.
A silver moon dominates the canvas, its surface bright and luminous. Instead of light, thick black resin spills from a crack, bleeding down into a dark blue sky.
The moon is lonely. Broken.
Ruined.
It’s our story.
Tears soak my cheeks, and I wipe them off with the back of my hand. My knuckles brush against my skin over and over until my pulse settles down.
Once calm, I raise my fingertips, touching the paint strokes, the ridges, and smoother planes.
“Everything you tell me, I already know.” My hand drops to my side, the corners of my lips curving downward. “Duncan suffered like I did while we were apart. It’s clear now.”
Emotional but not defeated, I go straight to Duncan’s desk, needing to see what else I can uncover. The surface itself has been wiped clean. There’s not a paper, a pen, or a speck of dust on it.
The drawers, however, are unlocked and full.
Old and new papers fill each one, piled in an order I can’t make sense of. Some papers have been torn from notebooks, while others have been printed out. Some are new; others are old and mildly yellow.
I trail my fingers over them as I move, wanting to look but being held back by a nagging fear.
What if I find something truly terrible?
Like proof of children with another woman. A birth certificate. Divorce papers.
“No,” I say to myself before slamming every drawer shut. “He looked honest this entire time. Genuinely honest and in pain. There’s been no one else.”
Something within tells me I need to keep digging. I listen to that voice, a light tremor going through me as I open the middle drawer, pull out a stack of papers, and slam it on the desk.
I don’t get to read through the first page before something slips out.
A photo.
It’s on the floor, so I can’t really see what’s on it. When I bend over to pick it up, my jaw drops.
