That evening, I found it in the back of the closet.
Buried behind coats and fur shawls.
Wrapped in plastic, like something sacred.
I shouldn't have touched it.
But my fingers moved on their own.
The red dress.
The same one from the photo on the grand piano.
The last one she wore before the accident.
A single heel still had dried blood on it.
---
> "That was her favorite," a voice said behind me.
I turned fast. He was standing in the doorway.
His eyes didn't look at me — not directly.
They looked through me.
> "She wore that the night she told me she hated herself."
His jaw clenched.
His hands were in fists.
> "I told her I didn't marry her for her mind. I married her for how her heart sounded when she cried."
He stepped closer.
> "Do you want to try it on?"
My breath caught.
> "I—I don't think I sh—"
> "You should."
He didn't wait for an answer.
He walked forward, took the hanger, and handed it to me.
> "Let me hear how it looks on you."
---
Ten minutes later, I stood in the mirror.
It fit.
Too well.
Like it had waited for me.
Like it knew.
The silk clung to my body like memory.
When I stepped out of the room, he was already standing there.
Waiting.
His eyes didn't blink.
> "You're beautiful."
A pause.
> "Almost perfect."
---
Dinner was quiet again.
Except this time, he spoke.
> "Do you remember the song we danced to?"
"No?"
"It's alright. I remember for both of us."
He tapped his phone.
A song began to play.
Piano. Soft strings.
Then a woman's voice singing:
> "Even if I die, my love will beat again."
I dropped my fork.
He stood.
Walked around the table.
Took my hand.
> "Just once," he whispered.
"Let me hold the part of you she left behind."
He pressed my palm to his chest.
Then pulled me close.
> "Dance with me, Amelia."
---
I wanted to scream.
To run.
But my body moved.
Not mine.
Hers.
The rhythm of the song matched the beating in my chest.
And I swear, he was listening.
Not to me.
To her.
---
That night, I dreamed of water.
Of drowning.
Of a hand pushing me deeper.
And the last thing I heard before waking was her voice again.
> "He doesn't love you. He never loved me. He only loves the sound of pain."