The lamp beside the bed was turned off. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city beyond the window. I saw him take a wooden chair and place it near the wall, facing the bed. He sat down slowly and folded his hands as if preparing for a long vigil.
I did not understand him. I wondered if he was unwell, or cruel in a quiet way, or bound by some private ritual I had never been warned about. Exhaustion eventually pulled me under, and when I woke the next morning, the chair was empty and my husband was gone.
The second night unfolded the same way. So did the third.
The staff in the house avoided my eyes. Meals appeared without comment. Doors closed softly behind me. It was as if everyone knew something I did not and had agreed never to speak of it.
On the fourth night, fear became something physical.
I woke to the sound of breathing close to my ear. It was slow and unsteady. I opened my eyes and saw him standing beside the bed, so near that I could smell the faint trace of aged cologne clinging to his shirt. His eyes were wide, focused not on my face but on my eyelids, as if he were watching for something beneath them.