That morning arrived with a gloomy gray sky, wrapping their small house in a pale, mournful light.
Shopia was the first to wake. She stared at the ceiling, her mind a battlefield of regret and unspoken hope. Jackson still lay beside her, facing away, his breathing shallow—either asleep or pretending.
Slowly, Shopia rose and walked to the bathroom. The cracked mirror greeted her with the reflection of a worn-out face—pale, sunken eyes, and lips that seemed to have forgotten how to smile. She splashed her face with cold water, hoping the sting would wash away the bitterness clinging to her skin.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, Jackson was already sitting at the table, sipping a cup of cheap instant coffee. His shirt was still stained with oil. He stared at the table, saying nothi
