But that cold July night, as winter crept through the windows, he came home and realized that even the biggest house can become a test of loneliness.
He parked in the garage but didn’t step out right away. His hands stayed on the wheel as he stared into the dark windshield, listening to the engine fade. The dashboard clock read 9:47. It was his birthday. No calls. No messages.
He grabbed a small bakery bag and walked into the kitchen. Inside was a simple chocolate cake—nothing festive, just something ordinary. But that night, it was all he had.
The house was spotless, silent, almost sacred in its stillness. Everything remained exactly as it had been when Emily was alive—the artwork she had chosen, the long hallways, the warm lighting—but none of it felt warm anymore.
Emily had been gone for three years. Three years of returning to a beautiful, empty home. Three years of eating alone, sleeping in silence, and working endlessly just to avoid thinking.
He placed a single white candle on the cake and lit it. The flame flickered uncertainly. Ethan sat in front of it, staring.
“Happy birthday to me,” he muttered.