I sat on the edge of the bed and opened it, turning each page with deliberate slowness.
Every photograph represented a gift from Luca. Eight years ago, he had told me that before we stood together and sealed our union, he would give me 9,999 surprises. He wanted to earn my heart through sincerity, he said, so that I would choose to become his wife of my own will. This custom-made album had been designed to hold exactly 9,999 images.
Only one page remained empty.
In the end, none of it had meant anything at all.
I carried the album downstairs and walked to a quiet clearing behind the building, where the shadows pooled thick and the city's noise faded to a distant murmur. I struck a match.
I watched each photograph curl and blacken, the flames consuming eight years of carefully preserved moments. The fire devoured everything—the smiles, the promises, the carefully staged scenes of devotion—until only ash remained. I was burying the woman I had been.
Luca arrived to find me standing before the blaze, my face illuminated by dying embers. His complexion drained of color.