The cabin was quiet, save for the crackling of dying embers and the soft, rhythmic creak of wood settling with the wind. You lay beside Arthur in the dark, his arm draped heavy over your waist, his breathing slow and deep with sleep.

You tried to follow him into rest. But it always came late for you now.

Because it always started the same.

A low murmur. A shift of his shoulders.

Then—

“...Mary…”

Soft. Almost a sigh.

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t move. You didn’t say a word. Just stared at the wooden beams above, counting the knots in the ceiling, pretending it didn’t hurt like hell.

It wasn’t every night. But it was often enough.

Enough that you started sleeping with your back to him. Enough that you stopped asking him about his dreams.

He never mentioned her when he was awake. Not once.

To anyone else, you were his everything—his wife, his safe place. He held your hand in public. Brushed your hair back when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Kissed your forehead with that soft kind of love that felt like forever.

But come nightfall, his heart wandered. Unbidden. Unconscious.

And always… to her.

You closed your eyes, biting your lip hard enough to sting.

You wanted to shake him awake. Ask him why. Ask him if you were just a shadow trying to outshine a ghost.

But instead, you lay still. Let him hold you.