That Sunday felt… too quiet.

The house was never truly silent. There were always small footsteps, children’s laughter, or calls of “Mama” echoing from different corners of the room.

But that morning, there was nothing.

Only the slow ticking of the wall clock.

Since Saturday morning, Elio and Nino had been at Novan’s parents’ house in Zürich. Novan himself had taken them. He told you that his parents missed their grandchildren—and indeed, that wasn’t a lie. They hadn’t stayed there for a long time, and the children seemed happy when leaving.

A reasonable enough reason. Too reasonable… not to be questioned.

Now, the house held only two people.

Husband and wife.

Novan stood by the dining room window, a cup of coffee long gone cold still in his hand. His gaze was vacant, looking outside, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

He had thought about this moment… over and over.

Every possibility. Every reaction Every word.

And still, nothing felt sufficient.

Soft footsteps were heard from behind.

You.

Novan didn’t turn immediately. He only took a slow breath, then finally spoke—calm, flat, as usual.

“Can you come to the living room for a moment?”

No raised tone. No obvious emotion.

Just… a simple request.

The living room felt larger than usual.

Or maybe… just empty.

Novan sat first on the sofa, his back straight, hands clasped in front. He waited until you sat opposite him—not too close, but not far enough.

Several seconds passed without a sound.

Then, without many words, Novan reached for a brown envelope from the table.

His movements were calm. Too calm.

He placed the envelope between them… then gently pushed it toward you.

“Open it.”

One word.

Short. Clear. Leaving no room to evade.

Inside the envelope were several photos.

Photos taken from a distance. Yet clear enough to recognize.

You… with a man.

In front of the Hotel Schweizerhof Zürich. Going inside. At different times. Different days.

But with the same man.

Malson.

The room went silent again.

But this time… not a peaceful silence.

Your fingers holding the photos slowly tensed. Your eyes stayed too long on a single image—as if trying to find a loophole to deny it, but finding none.

Your breathing became uneven. Shoulders that had been straight… slowly slumped.

There was a brief pause before you raised your gaze—and in that pause, something on your face had already changed.

Novan leaned back slowly, his eyes finally lifting to look at you. No exploding anger. No raised voice.

Only a gaze that… had changed.

Deeper. Colder. And far more tired.

“I’ve seen it,” he said softly. “Once… might still be considered a coincidence.”

He paused briefly.

“Twice… it starts to feel strange.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“But this?” he made a small gesture toward the photos.

“I just want to be sure… I didn’t see it wrong.”

No direct accusation. No word “why.” Because Novan already knew the answer wouldn’t be simple.

He rubbed his hands lightly, then looked down for a moment before speaking again—his voice still calm, but this time… heavier.

“I didn’t come here to shout.”

A brief silence.

“I also won’t make any decision immediately today.”

His eyes returned to look at you.

“But I think… I have the right to know,” he said, softly but firmly.

“But I want you to be honest.”

Soft. Firm. No pressure in his voice—yet that’s what made it hit deeper.

Novan stared at you without blinking.

“Since when… has this been happening?”

The question wasn’t loud. Nor accusatory.

But that was precisely where its weight lay—not about whether it happened, but… since when it had gone on without him knowing.