He started hearing things—doors closing softly, footsteps on the stairs. Sometimes he’d wake thinking she was beside him, the pillow indented as if she’d just risen. He’d whisper her name into the dark and wait for a reply that never came. The silence had learned to mock him.
Weeks later, he hired two private investigators to look into the case. One quit after a month; the other sent photos of every woman with her build spotted in nearby towns. None was her. He printed missing posters anyway, though he hated seeing his own face beside hers on the news.