Warm water ran slowly down my back—
but what I felt was cold.
The scratch on the kitchen cabinet still lingered in my mind.
Like a vague remnant of a bad dream.
Maybe it was the shape.
Maybe it was the words.
"Don't open."
The sentence was too direct to be a joke,
Too quiet to be taken seriously.
Could Théodore be under stress?
He never used to be like this.
Cold, yes.
Formal, of course.
But not... carving messages into wood like someone trying to contain something.
A job like his—being a detective—
it must change a man.
Even someone like him couldn't stay untouched.
I need to pay more attention to him.
That thought floated in my head as I toweled my neck dry.
A quiet decision, but real nonetheless.
I chose a long house dress—
soft, pastel-colored.
Hair pinned up without much care. Not neat, not messy.
Like someone who only meant to pass a quiet afternoon,
Not knowing it would become part of something much larger.
My steps toward the kitchen were slow.
The fridge opened with a soft hum.
A bowl of fresh cherries was taken and carried to the sitting room.
The old radio crackled on.
Its voice brittle, like the breath of the past.
"...and to this day, the identity of the killer in the capital remains unknown.
Police suspect it's not a random robbery,
given the victim pattern—eerily similar to the case last year…"
The voice flowed into the room,
but didn't quite reach me.
A cherry was bitten into—sweetness bursting across my tongue.
The pit was gently set on a clean tissue.
"…the latest victim was found with her eyes covered in black cloth,
and strange carvings on her right arm…"
Not all the details registered.
But something in that line… lingered.
Then a soft melody replaced the news.
A familiar classical tune.
I hummed along quietly,
legs swaying over the edge of the sofa.
The curtains danced softly as the evening breeze crept in.
Its scent comforting.
Like home.
Like a sense of safety that had long settled in.
As the sun began to dip, my rhythm shifted.
The fridge opened again.
Sliced beef, rosemary, the truffle pasta from last year's birthday—
all chosen with care.
Mushroom cream soup to start,
followed by roasted beef with red wine sauce,
and a small cherry cheesecake to finish.
Each plate prepared as if welcoming an important guest.
Though perhaps not a guest—
someone more than that.
Porcelain dishes.
Silver knives.
Napkins folded with precision.
A single white rose in a small vase beside the table.
His favorite.
I sat down.
The wall clock ticked—unhurried.
A small self-hug felt necessary.
A reminder that this house wasn't entirely empty.
"Come home soon… I want you to taste everything while it's still warm."
The words weren't spoken aloud.
Just whispered into the quiet of the dining room.
Then—
A car.
But not like usual.
The tires screeched—sharp.
Not Théodore's calm driving style.
The engine died slowly—
deliberately.
As if someone didn't want to be heard.
No footsteps followed.
But then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three knocks.
Soft. Measured.
Not rushed. Not nervous.
But enough to make the dining room feel suddenly smaller.
Not the sound of keys.
Not my husband.
Just...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
And no other sound followed.