The dining room held a long, endless table. Silver cutlery gleamed under the lights—far too elegant for a table that was rarely used. The living room sofas looked untouched. In the garden, old toys lay abandoned near a dry fountain.
Life was paused everywhere, as if someone had pressed pause and no one dared press play again.
On shelves and walls, framed photographs appeared again and again: Richard standing beside a woman with a bright, radiant smile.
Laura.
Marian understood without needing to hear the name.
The twins looked just like her—especially Lily, with eyes that seemed capable of crying without letting a single tear fall.
“You start tomorrow at eight,” Richard said at the end of the tour, already turning toward his office.
“Don’t force them to eat. They’re not required to do anything.”
And then he was gone.
Marian stood alone with the children for the first time, the silence settling over them like a heavy blanket.
She tried gently.
“How are you feeling today?”
The house answered only with the echo of her own voice.