Julian’s eyes fluttered. For a heartbeat, Clara saw the man she married—the one who sent her flowers every Monday for ten years. Then, his gaze sharpened, landing on her trench-coated figure standing in the doorway like an omen of doom.
He didn’t jump. He didn’t pull the sheet up in shame. He simply looked at her with a profound, weary sadness, as if he had been waiting for this executioner to arrive. He placed a protective hand on Leo’s shoulder, a gesture so instinctual it made Clara’s knees buckle.
“You’re home early,” Julian said, his voice a low rasp that tore through the remaining silence.
Clara didn’t answer. She looked at the shoes she still held in her hand—the worn, low-heeled shoes that didn’t belong to her. She let them drop. The thud was the sound of a door closing forever.
