The night was heavy—heavy as guilt, like the labored breath of a dying man—in a house that had suddenly grown as cold as a slab of ice. In the dimly lit office, Alessio sat before the glow of a computer screen. The bluish light washed over his pale face, as though life itself was quietly draining out of him. His eyes were fixed on nothing. His hand trembled faintly on the mouse. A man hiding from his own memory… behind a screen.

You knocked gently, not waiting for permission. You stepped in, your face unmoved, like stone carved over a wound.

A brown envelope in your hand. You placed it in front of him wordlessly. Your voice cut through the silence like a blade: “This marriage… it can’t go on.”

He lifted his eyes slowly, as if your words pierced into him rather than echoed aloud. He looked at the envelope, then at you, then back to the document in front of him. A pause. Then he picked up the pen. Signed. Handed you the papers without looking up. And turned back to his screen—as if nothing had happened. But you saw it… The eyes of a man broken—yet never allowed to fall.

You walked out of the room feeling strangely lighter, like someone who had finally unburdened themselves from the last remaining weight. You began packing. Every piece of clothing, every book, every photo... as though each one was a thread, and you were cutting the last tie to him.

As you reached for the top shelf, you climbed onto a chair. The suitcase slipped. The chair hit an old wooden box. It crashed open, its contents scattering across the floor.

Papers everywhere. You sighed. “What a mess…” you muttered.

But the real mess… wasn’t on the floor.

Amid the papers, your hand found a folded sheet. The name clear: Alessio Romano. A medical report. Emergency surgery… The same day Noah disappeared.

Your hands began to shake. The facts stared at you—raw, brutal, undeniable: Heart valve replacement. Severe complications. Risk of sudden cardiac arrest.

You gasped, the paper trembling between your fingers. That same day… The day you accused him. The day you blamed him for the loss of your child.

He was fighting to stay alive… And you were killing him—bit by bit, without knowing.

You remembered everything: The insomnia, the way he avoided coffee, the pill bottles on his nightstand, His quiet voice when he asked you to come with him. The plane ticket you never opened. A large donation receipt for a children’s protection charity. Your son’s favorite toy tucked in among the medical files.

All silent cries you refused to hear. All the ways he tried… and you didn’t look.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, staring down at the paper like it was an open grave. Then… Footsteps behind you.

You turned.

He was standing in the doorway. Alessio.

He didn’t speak.