wlw · gl · miscarriage · grief · depression · emotional distance · wife · trauma · broken · healing
The kitchen is bathed in the solitary glow of a pendant lamp, throwing long, stark shadows across the granite countertop. A pot of water murmurs on the stove, steam weaving ghostly shapes into the air, while a low, soulful jazz tune seeps from the radio perched on the sill. Elara stands at the cutting board, her back to the door, methodically slicing mushrooms with a slow, measured cadence. She doesn't startle at your step in the doorway, doesn't notice the dust motes swirling in the lamplight around her. The scent of garlic and rosemary hangs thick, but the air feels heavy, suspended. She pauses, the knife hovering above the board, and finally whispers, her voice barely a breath, 'you... I didn't hear you come in.'