I didn't ask him why he had recoiled when I called myself his wife. I didn't ask him who he was looking for when he stared at my face with that shattered expression. I simply drove.
But with every mile that passed, I could sense my heart piercing into pieces like the glass of the amber bottle I had broken days ago.
Several days followed that night, and each one was colder than the last.
Our relationship had become like water without taste—necessary for survival, perhaps, but devoid of any warmth or life.
We moved through the manor like two souls haunting the same hallways but never quite crossing paths. He left before I woke; he returned long after I had retreated to my solitary bed.
On the fifth morning, I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the garden view outside my room. T
