Lingering Warmth

Chapter 2 — Empty House

Ethan didn't sleep all night.

He sat in the leather chair of his study, the divorce agreement spread out before him. Clara's handwriting was beautiful, precise, every stroke deliberate. The section on property division was clear — she wanted nothing. The house was his, the car was his, and from their savings she'd taken only what belonged to her.

Clean and neat. Just like her.

Ethan read the agreement three times over, and each time made him angrier. He slammed the paper on the desk and thought, with a bitter smile, What game is Clara playing? Playing hard to get? Using divorce to force me to bow down?

Fine. Good for her.

He didn't believe for a second that Clara could do well without him.

But angry as he was, when dawn broke, he still called his assistant.

"Find out where Clara went."

"Mr. Stone, Ms. Hayes…" The assistant's voice hesitated. "You don't know? Ms. Hayes started working at that architecture firm in the east of the city last month. It's called… Verdant Architects."

Ethan was stunned.

Clara had a job? When had she found work? How had he not known anything about it?

He opened his mouth to ask, "Where does she live?" but swallowed the words. Asking would make it seem like he cared.

"Got it." He hung up.

The divorce agreement lay quietly on the desk, like a mocking face. Ethan stared at it for a long time, then finally stuffed it into the back of a drawer.

Fine. Divorce it is. Who's scared?

He went to the office as usual, sat through meetings as usual, signed documents as usual. But for some reason, the coffee tasted especially bitter that day, the pile of documents seemed especially high, and his subordinates' voices as they reported on their work sounded especially irritating.

At lunch, Olivia Reed from the marketing department carried her tray over and sat across from him, smiling brightly. "Mr. Stone, thanks for the ride home last night."

Ethan looked up at her, his expression blank. "It was on the way."

"Still, I have to thank you." Olivia Reed tossed her hair, her tone playful. "By the way, Mr. Stone, are you free tonight? I'd like to treat you to dinner, as thanks."

"Not free." His refusal was blunt.

The smile on Olivia Reed's face froze for a moment, then quickly returned. "Tomorrow, then?"

"We'll see." Ethan had lost his appetite. He set down his chopsticks and stood up. "I'm leaving first."

As he walked out of the cafeteria, he heard quiet murmurs behind him: "Director Reed got turned down again…" "Mr. Stone's like that with everyone, you know that…" "But he's married, right? Who's his wife? No one's ever seen her…"

Ethan kept walking, but an inexplicable irritation churned in his chest.

Who was his wife? His wife was Clara.

But how long had it been since he'd spoken that name in front of anyone?

There was an important video conference that afternoon, and Ethan forced himself to focus. But halfway through, his mind began to drift. He thought about leaving that morning — no warm milk on the dining table, no car keys laid out on the entryway console, no jacket hanging ready for him on the coat rack. Clara had always prepared these things ahead of time.

He used to think these were small things, not worth mentioning. Now he realized they were like air — you don't notice them when they're there, but you suffocate when they're gone.

When the meeting ended, his special assistant came in cautiously. "Mr. Stone, you have a three o'clock —"

"Cancel it." Ethan stood up and grabbed his coat.

"But the other party —"

"I said cancel it." His tone was sharp.

The assistant didn't dare say another word, watching helplessly as his boss stormed out.

Ethan drove to Verdant Architects.

It was a small building, tucked behind a row of old plane trees. The exterior walls were painted off-white, and a wooden sign hung by the door with two characters — Verdant — in a slender, elegant script.

He parked across the street and sat in his car, watching.

He waited half an hour before Clara came out.

She was wearing a cream-colored trench coat over a dark knit sweater, her hair tied in a low ponytail that exposed her smooth forehead. She was holding a folder and talking to someone beside her as she walked, a faint smile on her lips.

That smile wasn't for him.

Ethan watched her, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the steering wheel.

Clara had gotten thinner. He remembered how she used to have fuller cheeks, two faint dimples when she smiled. Now her face was sharper, and the dimples seemed to have faded.

She said goodbye to her colleague and turned toward the subway station. Ethan started the car and followed slowly. He didn't know why he was following — it was as if he just… needed to confirm that she was really doing fine on her own.

Clara bought a roasted sweet potato at the subway entrance. She stood on the sidewalk, holding it, peeling back the skin, and took a small bite. Her eyes crinkled.

Ethan watched her look of contentment, and a surge of anger rose inexplicably in his chest.

He'd always thought Clara was spoiled, that she couldn't handle hardship. Now it seemed she wasn't doing so badly without him.

No — she was doing better.

This realization made him deeply unhappy.

Clara finished the sweet potato, wiped her hands, and walked into the subway station. Ethan didn't follow any further. He made a U-turn and drove back.

On the way, he told himself that Clara was definitely putting on a show. How easy could it be, living out there alone? Once she'd had enough of the hard times, she'd come back on her own.

But when he got home and pushed open the door, the empty house had no lights, no smell of cooking, no one sitting on the sofa waiting for him to return.

Ethan stood in the entryway. As he changed his shoes, he glanced automatically at the console — no keys, no watch, none of the little hair ties Clara always left there.

Nothing.

He walked into the living room. The lights cast a cold white glow, making even the throw pillows on the sofa look lonely. The kitchen was spotless — nothing like it used to be, when there was always the faint warmth of home cooking. In the bedroom, her side of the bed was empty, the pillow arranged perfectly straight.

Ethan suddenly felt that this house was a stranger to him.

He'd lived here three years, and it was the first time he'd felt that way.

He pulled out his phone and found Clara's number. His finger hovered over the call button for a long time, then withdrew.

He couldn't call. If he called, he'd lose.

But if he didn't call, he couldn't sleep.

Ethan sat in the living room until the small hours, then poured himself a glass of whiskey. It was good liquor, but it burned going down. He drank glass after glass, until everything in front of him began to double.

Through his drunken haze, he thought he saw Clara coming out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of hangover soup, looking at him with gentle exasperation. "You drank too much again."

He reached out to grab her — but his hand closed on empty air.

Ethan's eyes flew open.

He was alone in the living room. Outside the window, the sky was starting to lighten. Gray light seeped through the gap in the curtains and fell across the floor like a cold scar.

He pushed himself up from the sofa, his head spinning. He went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. The man in the mirror had dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his jaw — he looked haggard and defeated.

What was this?

So Clara had left. So what? What was the big deal?

Ethan said to his reflection: Ethan, get a hold of yourself.

But after saying it, his chest felt hollow — as if someone had dug out a piece of him.

He remembered what Clara had said the night before. She'd said, Ethan, I'm tired.

At the time he'd thought she was being dramatic. Now it occurred to him, too late — she really was tired, wasn't she.

Three years. More than a thousand days and nights. She'd waited alone in this big house for someone who never knew when he'd come home. She never said anything, never made a fuss, never complained — so he'd assumed she didn't hurt.

But the human heart is made of flesh. How could it not hurt?

Ethan dried his face with a towel, moving slowly.

He went to the study, pulled open the drawer, and took out the divorce agreement. Clara's handwriting was clear on the page, each character like a needle pricking at his eyes.

He picked up a pen and held it over the signature line for a long time.

The tip touched down, then moved away. Touched down, then moved away.

Back and forth.

Finally he threw the pen down and swore.

To hell with signing.

He wouldn't agree to it.