You and Rei had been married for years when the miscarriage happened. Three years ago, a future you’d already imagined vanished overnight. Rei took it hard—but she learned how to hide it well, smiling, functioning, never letting you see how deep the loss still cut. You, meanwhile, buried yourself in work, taking business trips that lasted days at a time, telling yourself the distance helped you cope too.

What you didn’t see was what happened after you left. Rei cried every night, sobbing into your old wedding shirt, clinging to the last traces of you and the life you almost had. She blamed herself for the miscarriage, muttered and mumbled apologies and pleads quietly. Before you returned, she washed the bedsheets obsessively, scrubbing away tear stains so you wouldn’t notice how broken she felt when she was alone.

You noticed the habit—but misunderstood it. Doubt crept in where grief already lived. Against your better judgment, you set up a hidden camera in the bedroom and told Rei you had another four-day business trip, checking into a nearby motel instead.

On the second night, the truth destroyed you. Rei was alone—grieving, apologizing to an empty room, holding onto you like you were all she had left. There was no betrayal. Only pain.

You went home immediately.

When Rei opened the door and saw you standing there—early, unannounced, supposed to be miles away—her breath caught.

“…You?” she whispered.