Lilian drove home in a fog. The house loomed ahead, dark and waiting. She unlocked the door, half-dreading, half-hoping to find Ken there. But the house was empty—until she reached the bedroom.
The wedding photo was gone again. In its place, taped to the wall, was an old newspaper clipping. The headline read: LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME – FAMILY TRAGEDY. She scanned the article. The name beneath the photo made her knees weaken. Githinji – survived by wife Margaret and son Kenneth.
Her hand trembled as she read the last line: “Neighbors reported hearing loud arguments in the days before his death, followed by silence.” She turned slowly toward the bed. Something glimmered on Ken’s pillow—a small metal object. She picked it up. It was his wedding ring.
Inside, something was engraved she’d never seen before: “For when silence wins.” Her throat closed. Behind her, a floorboard creaked. She turned sharply, heart pounding—but there was no one there. Only the sound of the front door unlocking.
They moved on a Thursday, when the city was half-awake and the wind smelled of dust and rain. Ken carried boxes silently up the narrow stairs while Lilian followed, clutching a smaller one marked Fragile. The landlord had given them the keys that morning with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Walls are thin,” he’d said. “Try not to fight too loudly.” They both had laughed politely. Neither mentioned that their fights never needed sound to hurt.
The new apartment was smaller but brighter — white walls, high windows, clean corners. It felt like an empty notebook. Lilian thought maybe they could start again here, if only they wrote differently this time.
Ken unpacked methodically: shirts folded in neat piles, books lined on the shelf, shoes aligned like soldiers. Lilian noticed he never unpacked their wedding photo. When she asked where it was, he shrugged. “Probably in one of your boxes.” She didn’t push. She just nodded and said, “Maybe it’s better that way.”
For the first few days, things were quiet — almost peaceful. They cooked together, watched movies they didn’t finish, and slept in the same bed without turning away. Lilian told herself that maybe this time was different, that the darkness was tied to that old house, not to them. But by the end of the first week, the silence had changed its tone.
At first, it was gentle, like an agreement between them not to stir the past. Then it deepened, thickened, grew dense. It filled the spaces between their words, turning every sentence into a risk.
Ken began spending more time by the window, staring out at the city as though watching for something only he could see. At night, she caught him murmuring softly — sometimes to himself, sometimes to no one at all.
“Ken,” she asked one evening, “who are you talking to?” He blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?” “You were whispering.” He frowned. “No, I wasn’t.” “I heard you.” He smiled thinly. “You hear a lot of things lately.” The comment stung. She turned away, pretending to tidy the counter, but her hands shook.
That night she started keeping a journal. Each entry was short, written in hurried strokes; Day 3 — he’s quieter than before. Day 4 — I heard him say “Dad” in his sleep. Day 5 — I dreamed of the old house again. The photo was bleeding. She hid the notebook in a drawer beneath her clothes, afraid he might find it.
The wedding photo was gone again. In its place, taped to the wall, was an old newspaper clipping. The headline read: LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME – FAMILY TRAGEDY. She scanned the article. The name beneath the photo made her knees weaken. Githinji – survived by wife Margaret and son Kenneth.
Her hand trembled as she read the last line: “Neighbors reported hearing loud arguments in the days before his death, followed by silence.” She turned slowly toward the bed. Something glimmered on Ken’s pillow—a small metal object. She picked it up. It was his wedding ring.
Inside, something was engraved she’d never seen before: “For when silence wins.” Her throat closed. Behind her, a floorboard creaked. She turned sharply, heart pounding—but there was no one there. Only the sound of the front door unlocking.
They moved on a Thursday, when the city was half-awake and the wind smelled of dust and rain. Ken carried boxes silently up the narrow stairs while Lilian followed, clutching a smaller one marked Fragile. The landlord had given them the keys that morning with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Walls are thin,” he’d said. “Try not to fight too loudly.” They both had laughed politely. Neither mentioned that their fights never needed sound to hurt.
The new apartment was smaller but brighter — white walls, high windows, clean corners. It felt like an empty notebook. Lilian thought maybe they could start again here, if only they wrote differently this time.
Ken unpacked methodically: shirts folded in neat piles, books lined on the shelf, shoes aligned like soldiers. Lilian noticed he never unpacked their wedding photo. When she asked where it was, he shrugged. “Probably in one of your boxes.” She didn’t push. She just nodded and said, “Maybe it’s better that way.”
For the first few days, things were quiet — almost peaceful. They cooked together, watched movies they didn’t finish, and slept in the same bed without turning away. Lilian told herself that maybe this time was different, that the darkness was tied to that old house, not to them. But by the end of the first week, the silence had changed its tone.
At first, it was gentle, like an agreement between them not to stir the past. Then it deepened, thickened, grew dense. It filled the spaces between their words, turning every sentence into a risk.
Ken began spending more time by the window, staring out at the city as though watching for something only he could see. At night, she caught him murmuring softly — sometimes to himself, sometimes to no one at all.
“Ken,” she asked one evening, “who are you talking to?” He blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?” “You were whispering.” He frowned. “No, I wasn’t.” “I heard you.” He smiled thinly. “You hear a lot of things lately.” The comment stung. She turned away, pretending to tidy the counter, but her hands shook.
That night she started keeping a journal. Each entry was short, written in hurried strokes; Day 3 — he’s quieter than before. Day 4 — I heard him say “Dad” in his sleep. Day 5 — I dreamed of the old house again. The photo was bleeding. She hid the notebook in a drawer beneath her clothes, afraid he might find it.
