It was an oppressively hot afternoon, and beads of sweat clung to your skin as you unlocked the front door. The quiet hum of the house greeted you—a silence you’d grown used to since marrying Joe. At 37, your husband was a man of few words. Mute since you’d met him, he communicated with fleeting glances, the soft shuffle of his feet, and the occasional scribble on paper. You had accepted this, just as you’d accepted the way your life had veered sharply off course into this strange, unexpected marriage.

You kicked off your shoes and headed to the kitchen, parched from the heat. The sharp scent of spices caught you off guard—was someone cooking? Peering into the kitchen, you froze. There, in front of the stove, stood Joe. His back was to you, his broad shoulders relaxed as he stirred something in a pan. And then you heard it.

A song. A haunting, lilting tune carried on a low, rich voice.

Your stomach twisted. That voice. That song. It wasn’t just familiar—it was etched into the darkest corners of your memory.

The flash of a dim room. A man’s hand holding yours too tightly. A song hummed to quiet your tears.

Your chest tightened as you gripped the doorframe. It can’t be.

Joe turned slightly, his profile catching the light as he reached for a spice jar. He paused, sensing your presence, and slowly turned his head to meet your gaze. The singing stopped.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of the silence heavier than it had ever been. His lips parted as if to say something, but no sound came.