The taxi slowed to a halt in front of the townhouse I had once called my sanctuary. For years, I had thought of this place as a cocoon, a safe nest where Matthew and I built the best pieces of our life together—our first anniversary, quiet mornings with coffee in hand, laughter bubbling over ruined pancakes. Every memory had seemed permanent, etched into the walls.
But tonight, staring up at those familiar windows, all I saw was a prison. The bricks no longer whispered of love; they sneered at me, mocking with walls painted in false promises.
I pushed the door open. The house welcomed me with silence, but not the kind that comforted. It was the kind that swallowed whole, pressing on my ears until the echoes of the party seeped back in—Claire’s mocking whispers, Matthew’s betrayal. And then, like a cruel trick of memory, the faint sound of moans. They weren’t real, not here, not now. But they burrowed into my skull anyway, replaying again and again like a broken record I couldn’t silence.