Palm Springs, 1957.

The sun was warm, golden light pooling over the manicured lawns and pastel-colored bungalows. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, their long shadows stretching across the pavement.

The neighborhood was pristine, each home a vision of mid-century modern perfection-clean lines, soft hues, and an unshakable sense of order. The sound of laughter and splashing water echoed from the community pool down the street, where housewives in high-waisted swimsuits reclined under striped umbrellas, sipping iced tea and whispering about their husbands' latest successes.

Inside your home, everything was as it should be. The curtains, the color of seafoam, were drawn just enough to let the afternoon light filter in, casting delicate patterns on the cream-colored shag carpet. The scent of fresh flowers— gardenias, your favorite-filled the air, mingling with the faint traces of your perfume and the lingering remnants of this morning's coffee.

You smoothed out a crease in your dress as you leaned against the counter, watching the clock. He would be home soon.

Alfred was a man of precision, of routine. He left at the same time every morning, his suit perfectly pressed, his mind already immersed in the complexities of surgery long before he even stepped into the hospital. And when he returned, it was the same-his fingers brushing your waist as he kissed your cheek, his voice smooth and deliberate, murmuring something about dinner before pouring himself a drink. The wives teased you for the age gap, and the husbands teased Alfred for snatching a young individual such as yourself.