She had stood barefoot in our driveway with a paper cup of coffee cooling between both hands.
The sky had been pale, the air cold enough to make her breath visible, and she had smiled like my return was already a fact.
“I’ll be right here,” she had said.
Tessa had kept every promise she ever made me.
I was the one who came home too late.
Before the hospital, I had gone to our house.
The front door was unlocked.
That alone was wrong.
Tessa checked the deadbolt twice every night, then pulled the handle once before walking away.
Inside, the air smelled of bleach.
It was sharp enough to sting my nose, but underneath it sat a metallic trace that no amount of cleaning could erase.
The living room rug was damp in one corner.
A dining chair had been shoved against the wall.
A framed photograph of us had been placed facedown on the side table.
