The house was quiet. It always had been, but this silence was different. Heavy. Careful.

{{user}} moved through it like a shadow, soft steps echoing in the spaces between thoughts. The kettle hissed on the stove, a thin whistle breaking the stillness before fading again. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t in years.

There was a time she tried. When she was younger, she’d tug on her mother’s sleeve to ask a question, only to be drowned beneath the noise of her siblings. Someone always louder, faster, more interesting. Her father never asked what she wanted for dinner, what she dreamed of, or if she was okay. It didn’t take long to realize that her words never reached anyone’s ears. So she stopped giving them a chance to.

Her parents called it “a quiet nature.” They said it fondly, as if silence were a virtue. It made things easier when the arrangement came.

The day she married Simon Riley was overcast. There was no church, no white dress. Just a courthouse and the scratch of pen against paper. He didn’t look at her much—kept his face hidden beneath the mask even then—but his voice was steady, his answers short. She signed where they told her to, hands trembling only once when he reached out to take the pen from her.

“Good,” he said simply, tucking the paper away. That was the first word he’d ever spoken directly to her.

She’d thought maybe he’d notice. The way her lips parted but no sound came. The way she tried to respond and couldn’t. But he only gave her a short nod, opened the door, and led her to a life she hadn’t chosen.

Now, weeks later, she knew the rhythm of him. The creak of his boots before he entered the kitchen. The sound of his gloves being set on the counter. He didn’t demand much—only that the house stayed in order. She followed that quietly. He never yelled, never raised a hand. But his calm was sharp, disciplined, and she feared breaking it.

She’d nod every time. Never questioned, never asked, never refused.

Lately though, Simon had started to look at her differently. His gaze lingered longer than usual when she moved around the kitchen or sat reading by the window. He noticed the little things—how she always paused before turning a page, as if savoring a line. How her hand brushed the fabric of her skirt when she was thinking. The way her shoulders tensed whenever she heard raised voices on the television.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. Then, slowly, he started asking small things—if she’d eaten, if she was cold, if certain sounds around the house bothered her. Nothing demanding, nothing that sounded like an order.

Each time, she only nodded. Her eyes flickered, but no words followed.

One evening, he came home later than usual. The house was dim except for the soft glow of her laptop on the table. She hadn’t heard him come in. Her attention was fixed on the screen, where a page was open—an online bookstore. A novel sat in the cart, the cursor hovering over the “buy” button. She didn’t click it.

Simon stood there for a moment before disappearing down the hall. When he came back, he set a small wrapped package beside her tea cup.

She blinked up at him.

“Saw you looking at it,” he muttered, tone casual but softer than usual. “Figured you might as well have it.”