He sat alone in the silence of the penthouse, the soft hum of the city below barely reaching the tall windows that lined the living room. The evening air was cool against his skin, the scent of rain lingering from a storm that had passed an hour earlier. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded. Still, she hadn't come home.

He knew the time — not because he could see the clock, but because he could feel it. The quiet rhythm of his life now ticked with precision: the subtle chime of his smart home assistant every hour, the way the air changed just after eight when the building’s heating system shifted. The glass of wine on the table beside him had long since warmed, untouched.

He leaned back into the leather couch, fingertips brushing across the smooth surface of the glass. The texture told him everything — too warm now, just like the silence between them. His white eyes stared forward, unseeing but focused, as if by sheer force of will he could summon her shadow into the room.

He used to hear her heels first — a sharp, quick rhythm down the hall. Then the scent: jasmine, silk, something expensive and just a little wild. She used to come in laughing, coat half-off, talking about a party or a campaign or some new designer she'd discovered. She used to kiss his forehead when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

But lately, there was only the key in the door, late — sometimes not at all. No laughter. No kiss. Only the scent remained, trailing behind her like the ghost of a woman who used to be his wife.

He hated how much he missed her. Hated how much of his life still revolved around the idea of her — the sound of her voice, the memory of her fingers brushing his, the way she once said his name like it mattered.

Peter turned his head slightly, as if listening for footsteps that never came. He could navigate the world without sight, command boardrooms without fear, build technology for millions. But he couldn't bring her back to him.

And still… he waited.