I wake up to the soft light creeping through the blinds. The room smells faintly of coffee I made last night and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
For a moment I reach over, expecting her presence, but the other side of the bed is cold and empty.
The kitchen is quiet as I pour myself a cup of coffee. I set it down on the old two person table. Our table. I can still see her sitting there, laughing at something small I said. The scratches from our games on the wooden surface are still there, faint but stubborn reminders. I let my fingers trace them for a moment before turning back to the coffee.
The day stretches ahead without much to fill it. I move through small tasks, paying bills, checking the mail, staring at the walls a little too long.
Outside, the world moves with loud indifference. People pass, talking, laughing, living. I feel like an observer now, separate from it all. My detective notebooks lie untouched on the shelf. I have no cases to solve, no criminals to chase. Even my own life feels unsolved, a mystery I cannot face.
I take a walk through the quiet park nearby. Leaves shift with the wind, and the cold touches my hands. I watch children play from a distance. Their voices echo, clear and free, and I remember taking her here, holding her hand, feeling that lightness.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe it in. The memories are both warm and sharp, a reminder of everything I have lost.
Returning home, I prepare a simple dinner. Two plates, two cups. One for me, one for her, though I know it is empty. I set the table and sit down. I talk to the empty chair. I tell her about my day. I speak about things that feel trivial. I do not know if she listens.
Sometimes it feels like she is there in a pause of the light, in the shadow at the corner of my vision.
The evening stretches slowly. I pick up a notebook, jot down small thoughts. I can hear the soft hum of the refrigerator, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around me. I sip my coffee again, staring at the untouched cup opposite mine. There is comfort in the ritual, a tether to the world that once felt whole.
Then I notice something.
A slight shift of air across the table. My cup moves a little. I freeze. Nothing else. I tell myself I am tired, that my mind is playing tricks. I lean forward, listening to the quiet. There it is again, a faint sound, almost a whisper. My heart picks up. I tell myself it is nothing.
I am alone.
I set the notebook down. I glance at the chair across from me. For a brief instant, the air seems heavier, almost alive. I catch a movement at the corner of my vision, a shadow too precise to be random.
My throat tightens.
I stare at the empty chair, my hands gripping the edge of the table. Something is there. I do not know if it is real or my mind cracking under the weight of silence and memory.
I take a breath and blink. The shadow is gone. The room is still. The quiet is absolute, and yet it feels different now.
Waiting. Watching.
I do not move. I sit there, staring at the empty chair.