he house was quiet in that way that only grief leaves behind. Not peaceful. Not calm.
Just hollow. I noticed it the moment we stepped inside after the reception, the echo of our shoes too loud against the floors. This had been his house long before it was ours.
The place he’d once shared with her. I told myself it didn’t matter. We were married now.
This was our beginning. Matthew squeezed my hand as we walked upstairs, his smile soft, almost relieved. Mia had fallen asleep at her grandmother’s, exhausted from flower petals and spinning in circles.
It was just the two of us. I changed out of my dress, washed my face, and reached for the nightstand drawer to put my earrings away. That’s when I saw it.
A corner of yellowed paper taped to the underside of the drawer, barely visible unless you were looking for it. My heart skipped as I pulled the drawer out farther. Someone had hidden it carefully, deliberately.
It was an envelope. The handwriting was elegant, rounded, unmistakably feminine. My breath caught when I read the first line written across the front:
“If you’re reading this, he didn’t tell you the truth.”
My fingers went numb.
I peeled the envelope free and opened it with shaking hands. The paper inside felt thin, fragile, like it had been folded and unfolded too many times. The first sentence made my stomach twist.
“I know my time is running out. And if Matthew has remarried, I’m praying you found this letter before he hid the rest of what happened to me.”
Running out? Matthew had told me his wife died suddenly.
A car accident. Tragic. Unexpected.
Before I could read more, a sharp crash shattered the silence downstairs. Glass. Mia screamed.
Matthew’s voice followed instantly, soothing, practiced. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s here.”
Then, louder, strained: “Lila?
Can you check the kitchen?”
I shoved the letter back into the drawer, heart pounding, and rushed out. A glass lay broken near the sink. I swept it up quickly, my hands clumsy, my thoughts racing back to that sentence.
When I returned to the bedroom, the drawer was closed. The envelope was gone. I stood there staring, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Someone had taken it. And the awful realization settled in my chest: Matthew knew about the letter. The man I’d just married suddenly felt like a stranger.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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