The house was never silent, not truly. Even in the early mornings, before the sun made its pale climb over the roofs, there was always the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the old clock in the hallway, the sound of a woman moving carefully so as not to disturb her husband. Silence belonged to other homes, not theirs. What theirs had was distance.

He came home later now, his briefcase clutched to him as though it were part of his body, the scent of his office lingering on him more than the scent of her cooking ever could. His voice, once easy and warm, had grown softer, almost measured, as if he rationed it the way he rationed his energy. Calm, always calm. Where once he would argue, or laugh, or reach across the table, now he simply folded himself into the day’s weariness and allowed the quiet to swallow him whole.

She had grown sharper in his absence—not cruel, but tender in ways that cut. Every word she spoke carried with it the ache of being left behind, of hours spent in a house where his shadow stretched longer than his presence. She cried more often than she admitted, though never in front of him; she hated the thought of seeming weak, of giving him another reason to retreat.

They did not speak of leaving. Divorce was not something spoken in their world, not unless one wished to invite disgrace on both families. So instead, they circled each other in a fragile orbit: she reaching, he retreating, bound together not by closeness but by duty, and by the weight of a shame too great to bear.