My wife left me.
Reality refuses to bend to my will. The silence is cold. It leaves an oily film on my skin. A heavy cloak that descends the moment I step through the doors.
Stark reminders. Rugs. Photographs. Chandeliers and harsh silence. The air's changed in the house.
Time changed too.
Twenty-four hours feels like a year. The clock continuously surprises me. Has it only been a day?
Yes.
A glance at my watch. A glance at my phone.
No responses to my texts. Radio silence.
Cold as winter. Harriet is gone.
Am I living in an alternate dimension? In what world would Harriet leave me?
I shake the melancholy. Push myself to sit up in bed.
The closet screams for her clothes. Barren arms mourn the loss. The shelves shiver from their nakedness. Something's missing. Her bonnet. The lotion she liked. Shampoo. Conditioner. So many things. So many pieces of her.