Guilt is a strange thing.
It doesn't scream. It whispers.
Eliot visited her every day. Brought flowers. Told stories—carefully edited ones. He never lied outright, but he omitted like a professional.
When Mara asked, "We were happy, right?"
He said, "We tried."
Doctors said memories might return. Or they might not.
Eliot had a choice.
He chose silence.
They rebuilt something fragile. Different. She sensed cracks she couldn't name. Sometimes she cried without knowing why. Sometimes she looked at him like she was waiting for an apology he never gave.
Six months later, her memories came back all at once.
Not gently.
Violently.
She remembered the affair. The lies. The divorce. The way she had walked out the door without looking back.
And she remembered waking up, holding his hand, believing he was safe.
Mara didn't confront him.
She simply disappeared from the hospital that night.
Left behind one note:
"You stole my right to choose. I don't know how to forgive that."