The iron gates creaked open, groaning like something old and wounded. Kael's car rolled through the rain-slicked driveway, headlights cutting through the fog. The villa loomed ahead — grand, elegant, and utterly lifeless.
It used to be warm once.
The garden she tended glistened faintly under the drizzle. The balcony light that she always left on — "so the house wouldn't feel lonely," she'd said — now burned dimly through the fog. Everything was in its place, untouched.
And yet, nothing was the same.
Kael parked the car, but he didn't step out right away. His hands remained on the wheel, his knuckles pale from the grip. The storm had quieted, but its echo lingered in his chest — thunder without sound.
For a long while, he just sat there, staring through the windshield. His reflection looked back at him — tired, haunted, and older somehow. The man in the glass didn't resemble the one Amara once smiled at.
When he finally stepped out, his shoes met puddled stone. The scent of wet earth mingled with the faint sweetness of the garden — her garden. He remembered her kneeling there one weekend, sleeves rolled up, soil under her nails, hair tied back. She'd looked up at him with that soft grin and said, "It's okay to get a little dirty sometimes, Kael."
He had only frowned, told her to leave the work to the gardener.
Now the flowers she planted were gone. The soil was cracked and pale.
Inside, the silence waited for him.
No soft hum of her humming from the kitchen.
No faint scent of lavender soap.
No clinking of porcelain from her late-night tea.
Just emptiness — still and perfect.
Kael closed the door behind him. The sound echoed, hollow. For a moment he stood there, listening to the quiet. Then he tossed his keys onto the marble counter — the clatter seemed too loud, too alive.
"She's not really here," he murmured.
His voice was strange in this house — too large, too misplaced. The words felt like they didn't belong here anymore, as though the walls rejected them.
He walked through the hallway slowly, each step pulling at memories he didn't want to see.
The dining table gleamed — untouched. The couch cushions were perfectly aligned. The vase she used to fill with daisies sat empty, dust collecting around its rim.
And then he saw it — a small hair tie, left forgotten on the counter.
It was faded from use, still holding a few strands of her dark hair. His fingers hovered above it, hesitating, before finally picking it up. The fabric was soft, familiar.
He stared at it for a long time.
"I told you not to leave your things everywhere," he said quietly.
He almost smiled — almost. "You never listened."
He used to say it in irritation.
Now it came out like a prayer.
The faintest crack of a laugh escaped him — low and broken. He placed the hair tie gently back down, afraid that holding it too long would make it vanish.
He sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face. His heartbeat thudded painfully against his ribs.
"Why didn't I stop you that day?" he whispered. "Why did I let you walk away?"
The question hung in the air like a ghost, unanswered.
Then came the anger. The denial.
"This is her fault," he muttered, his voice trembling. "She forced me into this."
But the lie dissolved before it reached the air.
Because even he didn't believe it.
It wasn't her fault. It was his.
It had always been his.
He thought he was protecting himself. His image. His name.
But what he really protected was his fear — that poisonous, cowardly thing he mistook for pride.
He was terrified of what people would say. Terrified that someone like her — a staff's daughter — would make him look weak.
He remembered the whispers in the office, the mocking smiles when they saw how close she stood to him.
"He's really lowering his standards, isn't he?"
"Maybe she's just using him."
"He won't last long with someone like her."
So he shut her out before anyone else could. He buried every tender instinct under cold words and sharper smiles.
"She's just a staff's daughter."
The words still rang in his head — ugly, heavy. He wanted to tear them out of memory, erase them from existence.
But memory was merciless.
Kael leaned back, his eyes burning. He tilted his head against the couch, staring at the ceiling — the one she used to decorate with fairy lights because she thought it was cute, even when he told her it looked "childish."
He used to turn them off the moment she wasn't looking.
Now he wished they were still there.
Thunder rolled outside again, distant but constant.
"I broke her," he said aloud. The confession was a whisper, but it felt deafening in the empty house. "I broke her."
The villa swallowed his words and gave nothing back.
He sat there for hours — unmoving, staring at the dark. Every tick of the clock pressed against his chest like guilt counting time.
He thought of calling her. He thought of driving to her apartment. He thought of every possible way to see her again. But his pride — that stubborn, familiar ghost — whispered that she would come back on her own.
She always did.
Amara loved him. Too much, sometimes. She always forgave him, even when he didn't deserve it.
He convinced himself that this time would be no different.
That she was angry now, hurt maybe, but she'd come back when she calmed down. She always calmed down.
She'd walk through the door one morning, holding a grocery bag, smiling shyly like nothing had happened.
She'd say, "Good morning, Kael."
And he'd pretend not to notice how much he missed her.
That was what he believed.
Because believing anything else — that she might be gone for good — was unbearable.
So he sat in silence, waiting.
Days passed. He went to work, went through the motions. The world continued like nothing had broken.
But every evening, he came home to the same emptiness.
Her scent was fading. Her touch — the memory of it — slipping from the air.
He caught himself glancing toward the kitchen every time he poured a glass of water. Waiting for her laugh. For her voice. For something.
Nothing came.
He told himself she was still thinking of him, too. That she couldn't possibly move on that easily. Amara wasn't built for hatred. She was soft — forgiving.
He clung to that thought like a man drowning clings to a lie.
It was the only thing that kept him breathing.
He'd even begun to imagine what he'd say when she returned. "You overreacted.""I was wrong, but you provoked me." Maybe even "I missed you."
He practiced the tone — not too gentle, not too harsh. Something that sounded like regret but not weakness.
Because Kael Navarro did not beg.
He didn't chase.
He waited.
That's what he told himself, over and over.
But the waiting grew heavier each night.
By the end of the second week, he found himself standing in her room — the one she'd insisted on decorating herself. Soft curtains, pale colours, a small desk covered in books and sketches.
Everything was neat, untouched. A thin film of dust covered the edges.
Kael brushed his hand across the desk, his fingertips grazing a folded note.
He froze.
The note was blank. Just a piece of paper she'd never used. But for some reason, it felt significant — like she had meant to write something there and never did.
He sat down on her bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. He stared at the empty paper for a long time, then folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.
A part of him whispered that this was foolish. That he was a grown man sitting in a silent room, clutching nothing but ghosts.
But he stayed.
He stayed until the rain stopped.
Until the wind shifted and the moonlight crept through the curtains, touching the space where she used to sleep.
He remembered waking up once to find her there in the window nook of her room— asleep after they'd argued late into the night.
He'd been annoyed then. Now, he would have given anything to relive that moment.
Kael stood, exhaled shakily, and turned toward the door. His reflection caught in the mirror by the hallway — hair dishevelled, eyes shadowed, tie loosened.
He almost didn't recognize himself.
He looked like a man haunted by something he couldn't undo.
"Come back, Amara," he whispered. "Please."
But there was no answer.
Only the quiet hum of the night — the villa breathing around him, lonely and patient.
He told himself it didn't matter. That she would return.
That she had to.
Because Amara loved him.
And love, he believed, always came back — even to the undeserving.
So Kael waited.
He waited in a house that no longer felt alive, surrounded by memories that no longer spoke.
And as the days blurred together, the silence grew heavier — until it became the only thing left that still loved him back.