The house by the lake was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Eleanor had chosen it carefully—minimalist, serene, surrounded by water and silence. A place designed to slow time, to encourage closeness, to remind them of who they had been before responsibility swallowed everything whole.
“This is perfect,” she said, setting her bag down. “Isn’t it?”
Damián nodded. “It is.”
And it was.
The problem was that perfection felt hollow when his mind refused to settle.
That first evening passed gently. They cooked together, opened a bottle of wine, talked about neutral things—travel plans, work schedules, memories that no longer carried weight.
Eleanor watched him closely.
He laughed when expected. Responded when spoken to. Touched her when she reached for him.
But something was missing.
Later that
