The assistant's voice trembles.
Rushing into the villa, I find Susan's torn silk pajamas, but the girl who hid my dirty socks is missing.
Her makeup lies untouched, lipstick half-twisted as if she'll return any second.
I ransack every room, even the closet where she stashed snacks.
Collapsing on our empty bed, I clutch her sandalwood candle—it smells almost gone.
My voice loops from the phone: "Baby, stop sulking. I'm done with Susan"—but the chat stays "Read, not replied".
Our wedding photo still hangs: she in champagne lace, dimples deep as stars, my arm around her waist promising "Forever".
Now I know—she wasn't pouting.
She left for good, like the street urchin I found years ago, dusting off and walking into the west wind without looking back.
Dawn dusts the crystal slipper.
