Chapter eight: The Return
The soft rumble of the airplane's wheels against the tarmac broke the hush inside the cabin. Nuria blinked herself awake, forehead pressed gently against the oval window. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked down at the city below, its scattered lights resembling stars that had fallen and settled across the land.
Her fingers instinctively reached for Asa's hand, cold and still. He was awake but unmoving, his eyes staring straight ahead. His face looked hollow, drained of the warmth she'd seen during their early days in Greece. There were moments when he smiled, kissed her forehead, called her "his beautiful wife." But now—now it all seemed like a well-worn mask.
They disembarked into the chilled airport corridor, hand in hand. Despite the end of their honeymoon, there was no excitement, no bubbling chatter about the journey ahead. Just silence.
A black car waited for them at the curbside. The driver, someone Asa referred to only as Charles, opened the door and nodded without meeting their eyes. Nuria climbed in, her luggage trailing behind.
"Home?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible.
Asa nodded. "Yes. Home."
But the word felt strange on her tongue now.
---
The apartment was everything it had always been: pristine floors, silver light fixtures, wide glass walls overlooking the cityscape, and that sterile scent of polished wood and citrus candles. Yet something about it had changed. Or maybe, she had.
Nuria walked slowly through the hallway, past the familiar paintings—brilliant abstracts Asa once told her reminded him of freedom. Now they loomed over her like shadows.
In the bedroom, she sat at the edge of the bed. Asa stood behind her, slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt. She glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His face was unreadable, jaw tight, gaze sharp.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said. "You should rest."
She nodded, watching him disappear into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the room like a lullaby turned sour.
Nuria lay down and stared at the ceiling. Her heart beat quietly at first, then faster—echoing louder than she could bear. She turned to the side, pulling the duvet over her shoulders, closing her eyes.
When she woke, it was nearly dusk.
---
The following days passed like slow-moving fog. Asa worked from home, glued to his office, and when he emerged, he was gentler again. He brought her tea. He kissed her hair. But the coldness always lingered. Like the memory of something unspoken.
He didn't like her going out alone.
"Not yet," he'd say. "I need you close. I get anxious when you're far."
The first time he said it, she smiled, brushing it off as affection. The third time, it sounded like a command.
By the fifth, it was law.
---
On a rainy Thursday, Nuria found herself crouched beside the kitchen cabinet, scrubbing a nonexistent stain from the marble floor. Her hands trembled. She didn't know why. Maybe because Asa had barely spoken that morning, his eyes following her like a hawk's, narrowing whenever she touched her phone.
"Who called you yesterday?" he asked that night as they lay in bed.
"No one important. Just Mira."
His hand rested on her stomach. "What did she say?"
Nuria kept her tone light. "She said she misses me. And that my old job's missing me too."
A pause. Then: "You don't need to work anymore. You have me."
"I know," she whispered. "I just like feeling useful."
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "You are. To me. You're my peace."
But peace wasn't supposed to feel like walking on glass.
---
That night, Nuria dreamt of the ocean. The dark waves swallowed her, pulling her under. She kicked and screamed, calling for Asa. But when he appeared, his back was turned. He was walking away.
She woke with a gasp.
Beside her, Asa lay perfectly still. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.
Except—his hand was hovering just above her throat.
Not resting. Not touching. Just… there.
Suspended like the moment before lightning strikes.
She didn't scream. Just stared.
And then, he blinked. Realized. Smiled.
"Hey, you're awake," he whispered. "Sorry—I must've rolled over in my sleep."
She nodded slowly, her lips dry.
He kissed her forehead. "Let's go back to sleep."
She couldn't. Not after that. But she closed her eyes anyway.
---
The next morning, Asa was cheerful. Made breakfast. Joked about the wedding photos that had come in. Showed her one where they were laughing, her head tilted against his shoulder.
"This one's my favorite," he said.
Nuria smiled. "We look happy."
He turned to her. "We are happy, right?"
Something about his tone. It wasn't a question. It was a test.
"Yes," she said.
He pulled her close. "Good."
---
Later that week, Nuria found an old box of Asa's in the hallway closet. She wasn't searching. She had been cleaning when her elbow knocked it loose.
Inside were photos. A man. A woman. A teenage boy. A little boy. Laughing in front of a mansion.
She frowned. The woman looked familiar. Her eyes… wide. Soft. But afraid.
Nuria closed the box quickly, heart pounding.
She didn't know why.
---
Asa's nightmares grew louder. He'd wake drenched in sweat, breathing hard. Muttering things like:
"Why did you do it?"
Or:
"Don't make me remember."
Once, Nuria heard him whisper, "She was just a girl."
When she asked in the morning, he said it was just dreams. Work stress. But his hands trembled when she touched his face.
---
She started writing in her journal again.
He's not the same. He changes like weather. Sometimes he's Asa—gentle, brilliant, funny. Sometimes he's... something else. Something watching.
I don't want to be afraid. But I am.
---
That evening, Asa brought her flowers. Lavender and white roses. Her favorites.
"Forgive me if I've been distant," he said. "I'm trying. I promise."
She wrapped her arms around his waist. "I know."
He held her tightly.
Too tightly.
His breath against her ear. "You'll never leave me, right?"
She froze.
He pulled back. Smiled.
"I mean… you're mine forever now."
She laughed weakly. "Of course."
But even her own voice sounded strange now.
---
That night, while Asa slept, Nuria sat alone on the balcony, the city lights flickering below her like restless stars.
She thought of the girl she used to be—the one who blabbered about school at dinner tables, who clutched a teddy bear in the dark. Who once believed that monsters only lived in fairy tales.
But some monsters wore smiles.
Some monsters said "I do."
And some monsters—
Held your hand while they waited for the past to catch up.
---