Chapter 1: The Gallery
Five years.
That’s how long it’s been since the last time I heard that ringtone.
The house isn’t quiet anymore.
There’s paint on the floors. Dog hair on the couch.
And her. Always her.
She teaches art therapy now. Kids, survivors, anyone who needs to name what broke them.
I run a security firm. Legal. Clean. I use the scary to keep people safe instead of hurting them.
We’re married. Ring on her finger. Dog named Storm.
We planted that stupid garden. It lived.
I thought we were done being helpless.
I was wrong.
---
Her gallery opening was supposed to be simple.
White wine. Soft music. Her paintings on the walls.
She was glowing in that navy dress. Hair up. Laughing with a 10-year-old about his dinosaur painting.
I was watching the doors. Old habit.
That’s when he walked in.
Suit. No smile. Eyes that knew my name and the names of people I buried 5 years ago.
He didn’t look at me.
He walked straight to her.
Handed her a small black envelope.
Whispered something I couldn’t hear.
Walked out.
Her smile didn’t drop. Not at first.
But I know her.
I saw her fingers go cold around the wine glass.
She found me by the bar 30 seconds later.
Pressed the envelope into my palm.
Inside: one photo.
Us. Last week. At the grocery store.
And three words on the back:
`We’re not done.`
My jaw ticked. Five years of peace, gone in one sentence.
She looked up at me. Eyes steady. Not scared.
Tired.
"Don’t you dare decide this for me," she said quietly.
"Don’t you dare push me away again."
I pulled her in. Forehead to hers.
"I won’t," I promised. "This time we end it before it starts."
Storm barked from the back room.
The music kept playing.
But the war?
The war was back.
And we weren’t helpless anymore.
