The dinner table glowed. The cake waited. But Ryan never showed up.
Eve stared at the flickering candles. Twelve of them, two for each year she wished she had known him before the bitterness, before silence turned their marriage into a mausoleum. Their flames stretched upward, golden and soft, casting shadows that made the table look fuller than it was.
She had spent the day preparing. Rosemary roast chicken, garlic potatoes whipped until smooth, sautéed vegetables cut in even slices. The kitchen still smelled faintly of rosemary and butter, rich and inviting. In the center of the table sat the cake, round and dark, glossy with ganache, its edges trimmed with curls she’d shaved herself. Next to it lay the small black-wrapped box, his gift. A leather-bound journal, monogrammed with his in
