Wróciłem do domu po klucze, ale to, co usłyszałem w sypialni, sprawiło, że zamarzłem na korytarzu

The front door clicked behind me with that same soft whisper it had made a thousand times. Marble underfoot, heels echoing, I rifled my purse a third time. No keys. Damn it.

The bedroom—that was where I’d changed earrings at the last minute before Mom’s birthday lunch. The keys had to be on my nightstand.

I slipped off my heels. The stone floor cooled through my stockings as I padded toward the staircase. In the drift of afternoon light the house felt different—too quiet, too still. Normally I’d call out to Antonio, let him know I was home. But something held me. Maybe it was how the silence pressed against my skin. Maybe it was the way shadows fell wrong across the upstairs hall.

At the top, I turned toward our bedroom. The door was ajar. Through the gap, movement.

My heart fluttered. Maybe Antonio had come home early. Maybe we could talk—really talk—about the distance growing between us like a canyon I couldn’t cross.