The house had never felt so loud in its silence.
Every creak of the wooden floor, every tick of the clock, every sigh of wind through the window—all of it mocked Daniel with Rebecca's absence.
Her shawl still hung on the chair.
Her hairbrush lay on the dresser, with strands of her auburn hair still caught in the bristles.
And on the kitchen counter, a half-empty cup of tea had turned cold—left behind like an unfinished goodbye.
Daniel moved through the rooms like a ghost trapped in his own life. He touched her things as though his hands could summon her back, as though love alone could rewind the hours.
But love wasn't enough. Not anymore.
The letter sat folded in his pocket, its edges damp from the sweat of his palms. He'd read it so many times that her words had carved themselves into his mind. Each sentence played back in her voice—soft, trembling, breaking.
"Please don't look for me."
But how could he not?
He stepped outside, the morning mist clinging to the air. Maplewood was awake—the church bell ringing faintly, children running down the road with their school satchels, neighbors exchanging greetings that sounded painfully normal.
Daniel stared at them, feeling like a sinner hiding in plain sight.
Mrs. Thompson waved from her porch.
He waved back automatically, forcing a thin smile.
Then he turned toward the church.
Inside, the scent of old wood and candle wax hung heavy. Pastor Gregory's voice echoed faintly from the confessional room, speaking with another parishioner. Daniel sat at the back pew, his eyes fixed on the altar.
He wanted to pray.
But every time he tried, the same image rose before him—Rebecca, clutching her belly under the moonlight, whispering, "We can't do this, Daniel…"
He buried his face in his hands. "God," he whispered, "I don't know how to come back."
A sound behind him—soft footsteps—made him look up.
It was Sister Mary, her expression calm, though her eyes seemed to read the weight he carried.
"Mr. Cole," she said gently, "you look pale. Is everything all right?"
He forced a weak smile. "Just tired."
"Then rest, child," she said kindly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The Lord gives peace to those who seek Him."
Her touch should've comforted him. But instead, Daniel flinched. Because in that instant, he realized something terrible—he wasn't seeking peace.
He was running from judgment.
---
That night, the house groaned under the wind. The shutters rattled. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled—a long, mournful sound that carried through the empty streets.
Daniel sat alone by the table, the oil lamp flickering before him.
He hadn't eaten all day. He hadn't slept since she left.
And when the lamp flame bent, casting a long shadow across the wall, he thought he saw her.
Rebecca—standing in the corner, eyes hollow, her lips parting as if to speak.
He blinked, and she was gone.
Only the whisper of wind answered him.
"Rebecca?" he breathed.
The silence that followed was the cruelest sound he'd ever heard.