The first touch didn't come from a person.
It came from the house.
From the way the cold air slid across Mara's bare shoulders as she stood in the kitchen, the silk strap of her nightdress slipping down her arm like a hand trying to leave her body.
She hadn't noticed when she walked in.
She only realized she'd been standing there a long time when she felt the chill settle into her skin.
The kettle hissed softly.
The tiles beneath her feet felt too smooth. Too clean. Like a place someone lived in… but not a place she belonged.
There was lipstick smeared faintly along her collarbone — a soft, blurred mark.
Not hers.
She didn't remember how it got there.
Her fingers drifted to it slowly, tracing the faint curve of someone else's mouth against her skin, and a shiver moved down her spine — not pleasure… not fear… something in-between.
A memory flickered.
A laugh against her ear.
A woman's breath.
Her hands pressed against a wall in a dark office.
"Mummy?"
The voice cut through the memory.
The world snapped back.
Her son stood by the doorway, watching her the way people watch something fragile — or dangerous.
"You didn't hear me," he murmured.
"I was thinking," she replied automatically, her voice soft and composed, though her pulse — or what should have been her pulse — did not move inside her.
He looked at her hands again.
He always did.
"You're cold," he said quietly. "You're always cold."
She smiled.
Too gently.
Too practiced.
He didn't smile back.
Behind him, her daughter appeared — hair tumbling over one shoulder, gaze sharp, guarded. The girl's eyes lingered on the faint lipstick stain on Mara's skin before quickly shifting away.
"You didn't sleep here last night," the girl said.
It wasn't a question.
Mara blinked.
She searched her mind.
The bed.
The dark.
Hands in her hair.
A woman whispering her name.
Then nothing.
"I worked late," she said simply.
Her daughter's lips tightened.
"Right."
The kettle screamed suddenly — loud and violent — like the house itself was warning her.
Mara flinched.
The children didn't.
They were used to the sound.
She poured the hot water out slowly, the steam drifting across her face. The scent of it filled the room — sharp, metallic, like warmth pretending to be comfort.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
The name lit up the screen.
Amina.
Her boss.
Her fingers hovered over the phone… then picked it up.
I can still taste you on my lips.
Her breath caught.
Her knees weakened.
A phantom sensation ghosted across the back of her neck — teeth grazing skin — a warm hand sliding beneath silk.
Another message followed.
Come to the office early. I want you alone this time.
Her heart should have pounded.
It didn't.
Her son shifted nervously.
"Mum… who's texting you?"
Her daughter looked away — not curious… uncomfortable. Like she already knew the answer but didn't have the words for it.
Mara placed the phone down slowly.
"I'll get you ready for school," she said.
Her son stepped back.
Her daughter avoided touching her as she walked past.
They moved through the kitchen like shadows avoiding a flame.
She reached out anyway — fingertips brushing lightly against her daughter's wrist — and the girl stiffened, breath catching, as if something cold had passed through her instead of over her.
"Mum," she whispered, almost pleading, "don't."
Mara withdrew her hand.
Silence filled the room again.
Ticking clock.
Humming light.
The faint scent of someone else's perfume still clinging to her skin.
The kitchen window creaked.
A shadow moved outside.
A stray dog stood in the yard again, tail lowered, staring straight at her with wide, fearful eyes — not curious… terrified — like it saw something the others refused to.
The children finished eating quickly.
Too quickly.
"We're going," her daughter said.
No hug.
No goodbye.
The door closed.
The house exhaled.
Mara stood alone again.
She let the strap of her nightdress fall further down her shoulder, exposing the rest of the lipstick stain.
Her fingers pressed into it.
A voice echoed in her mind — low… feminine… breathless.
"Say it… tell me you belong to me."
She leaned forward against the counter, breath trembling, heat pooling beneath her skin even though her body remained cold.
Cold.
Always cold.
Her phone rang.
She picked it up.
Amina didn't speak when Mara answered.
She only breathed.
Slow…
Deep…
Intimate.
"I've been thinking about you since last night," Amina whispered. "Come early."
Mara closed her eyes.
Images flashed.
The office door locked.
Hands in her hair.
Mouth against her throat.
Shadows swallowing their reflections.
"Did I… stay the night?" Mara murmured.
Silence.
Then a soft laugh.
"You don't remember?"
A shudder moved through Mara's body.
Something inside her recoiled.
Something else leaned in.
"I'll be there," she whispered.
The call ended.
She slowly lifted her gaze toward the microwave glass again.
Her reflection stared back.
Pale.
Still.
Almost… wrong.
She raised her hand.
Her reflection delayed.
Half a second.
The same half-second as before.
Her throat tightened.
From somewhere far away — like an echo trapped inside her bones — a voice whispered softly:
You don't belong here.
The house grew colder.
She stood there, breathing in a body that never warmed, lipstick fading slowly against skin that never changed…
…and the day began.