The morning was cruel in its gentleness.
Silas woke with a headache clinging to his temples like a curse.
He blinked at the unfamiliar softness under him.
This wasn't the floor.
This wasn't the living room.
He was in a bed.
His?
No—Verin's.
But pain made the details distant. He rose, wandered like a ghost to the kitchen, boiled water, drank, and stood in silence as the ache dulled but didn't vanish.
The house was too quiet.
He figured Verin had vanished like he always does—into the wind, or worse, into someone else's story.
After washing his face, he pulled on a brown shirt, dark trousers.
Nothing new, just different.
His hair rebelled against the comb, so he let it—messy in a beautiful kind of way, like wild things refusing to be tamed.
The backyard was clean. Too clean.
It looked like a graveyard where wildness went to die.
Silas frowned, turned around, and went back inside to ask Verin if he could change it.
But the house answered with silence.
Then: a knock.
He opened the door, blinking at the sudden brightness.
A group of girls stood there—sunlight caught in their hair, hands full of cloth and soap.
"Verin isn't here," Silas said, eyes narrowing in confusion.
One girl's smile faltered.
"We're not here for Verin."
"…Then?"
"We're here to clean his house," another chimed in.
His brows furrowed. "You're… his maids?"
They laughed. "No, no."
"Then what are you?"
A girl blushed, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Wives."
Silas tilted his head. "What?"
"That's what wives do, isn't it?" she murmured, stepping closer. "Clean. Cook. Care."
"…Right," Silas muttered, stepping aside. "Make yourselves at home, I guess."
He watched them move like practiced hands, polishing a life that didn't belong to them.
Then he shook his head and walked out.
His old house still smelled like memories.
Like dust and Evelyn's favorite tea leaves.
Her laughter still echoed faintly in corners.
He sat. He didn't mean to cry. He didn't.
Time passed unnoticed.
When the sky was bleeding blue and gold into night, he finally left.
Verin was waiting at the dining table when he returned. Back straight. Eyes sharp. Hands still.
"Where were you?"
His voice was too calm.
Silas closed the door behind him.
"I… went to my house."
Verin's gaze didn't waver.
Silas cleared his throat. "Can I redecorate the backyard?"
"You don't need my permission," Verin said. "Do whatever you want."
Silas blinked, slightly taken aback at the lack of resistance, then moved to the kitchen.
He stopped short. Dinner was already cooked, warm.
He served it quietly and, without thinking, murmured,
"The girls are really good chefs…"
There was a pause.
And then Verin's voice—soft, but razor-sharp:
"I cooked it."
Silas looked up.
"I thought—"
"You thought wrong."
Silas watched him. Verin didn't eat. He just stared.
Stared like Silas had stolen something from him.
"…It tastes good," Silas offered after a pause.
Verin blinked. Slowly. "That's all?"
"You're… a good chef."
Verin didn't smile.
He nodded—barely.
But he didn't touch his plate.
"You're not going to eat?" Silas asked.
"I lost my appetite," Verin said, voice like cooled embers. "It's a strange thing. Happens when your husband gives your work to someone else."
Silas looked away.
The air turned thick and wordless.
When dinner ended, Silas reached for the dishes, but—
"Leave it," Verin said.
"I can do it—"
"I said leave it."
His tone didn't rise, but Silas stepped back as if pushed.
Later, after the water stopped running and steam faded from the bathroom, Silas emerged.
Verin stood in the doorway.
"You're going to sleep with your hair wet?"
Silas didn't even blink. "No. Why would I?"
Verin stared for a beat, then walked past him into the bathroom.
When he came out, towel slung around his neck, he found Silas on the balcony.
The stars were hanging low, as if listening.
"What are you doing out here?" Verin asked.
Silas didn't look at him. "Just… watching the sky."
Verin sat across from him.
His eyes weren't on the stars.
"The view is beautiful," he murmured.
Silas nodded. "Yeah. It is."
They weren't talking about the same thing.
But neither corrected the other.
Verin kept staring.
Silas felt the weight of it, like heat on the skin.
"…Why are you looking at me like that?" Silas asked, finally meeting his gaze.
Verin didn't flinch. "I'm enjoying the view."
A beat of silence.
Silas narrowed his eyes.
"What's wrong with you?"
Verin shrugged. "Everything. Or maybe nothing."
They stayed like that until the sky grew darker.
When they went inside, Silas grabbed a pillow.
"I'll sleep on the floor."
Verin didn't move. "You didn't seem to mind sharing a bed last night."
Silas paused. Then sighed.
"Whatever."
He lay down beside Verin, facing the opposite direction.
Two backs turned.
Two hearts unread.
One bed.
Too many unsaid things between them.
Next Day ^-^
Silas woke.
The bed was empty — an echo in the quiet room.
He didn't mind.
Routine was a familiar rhythm,
worn like a well-fitted coat,
same steps, new stage.
Outside, the garden whispered in green,
carrots and broccoli standing tall like quiet witnesses.
Silas sat, fingers brushing earth,
eyes fixed on the ring—a simple band,
sharp-edged in its silence.
Verin approached, a shadow sliding into the light,
taking a seat just beyond reach.
"What's the weight today?"
Verin asked, voice smooth,
half joke, half question.
"How hard is it," Silas said, "to be a husband without a wife?"
The ring caught the light—cold, unyielding.
Verin chuckled, eyes tracing the neat rows of the garden—
a life tilled but not yet ripe.
"Why marry me?" Silas's words came soft,
more curiosity than challenge.
Verin's smile held a secret—
"I wanted to know what it feels like,
to marry a man."
Silas looked up—sharp, steady—
"Liar."
"Truth?" Verin shrugged,
"None needed.
I married because I chose it.
No cause, no meaning,
just the feeling of saying yes."
Silas shook his head—
"And the others?
Did they make you happy?"
"Short-lived," Verin said, voice low,
"like borrowed light.
This time, it's mine."
"Too poetic for the truth," Silas said,
and rose,
leaving Verin with the soil and silent shoots.
Verin stayed,
watching life push through earth—
a quiet promise,
an unspoken lie.
-To be continued -