Chapter -22
The quietness of the house had started to feel unbearable. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Arthur left. At first, Aaira had thought she would get used to it — that the constant ache in her chest would dull, that life would go back to what it was before he walked into it. But it hadn’t. If anything, it was worse. Every morning, she woke up and found her eyes instinctively searching the lane, half-expecting his BMW to come rolling in. Every evening, when the sun dipped behind the cottages, she found herself standing by the window of her little outhouse, staring toward the big house, waiting for that warm glow in the study to turn on — a sign that Arthur was there, sitting with a book or a script, sipping whiskey. But it stayed dark. Every night. And so did she. The only thing
- Writer
