By the time the sun rose, the house was cold again. The kind of cold that didn’t come from open windows but from absence—the vacuum left behind when a person takes their warmth with them. Ken was gone. No note. No message. No sound. Only the faint echo of his voice from the night before still hung in the corners of her mind: “Do you ever think about dying together?”
Lilian sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space beside her. The pillow still carried the faint scent of perfume that wasn’t hers. She couldn’t tell if it was the same one as before—sweet and sharp, like flowers left too long in a vase. She ran her hand over the sheet, half expecting to find something—proof that he had been there, or proof that she was losing her mind.
The silence pressed down on her until she couldn’t breathe. She got dressed and went downstairs, where the morning light made the dust on the furniture glow like ash. The wedding photo was still lying face down on the nightstand. She picked it up, wiped the glass with her sleeve, and stared at the two smiling faces inside. Her own eyes seemed different—brighter, almost foolish. His, on the other hand, looked exactly the same as they always had: calm, unreadable, slightly deceptive. She placed the photo back on the wall. For the first time, she realized that the horror wasn’t in the arguments, or in the disappearances—it was in how easily everything returned to normal.
On the kitchen counter, she found something new. A folded note, written in Ken’s handwriting: “Don’t dig into things you won’t understand. – K.” Her heart lurched. The paper trembled in her hand. She wanted to laugh, but it came out as a broken sound between a gasp and a sob. “Too late,” she whispered. That day, she went looking for the past.
It started with a phone call—to a number she hadn’t dialed in years. “Hello?” A man’s voice answered, cautious. “Daniel? It’s Lilian.” A pause. Then, a slow exhale. “Lilian. Wow. It’s been a long time.”
Daniel had been Ken’s closest friend once. Best man at their wedding. The one who always said Ken had “a good heart, just hard edges.” They hadn’t spoken since Ken had fallen out with him two years ago—some argument about money, or maybe betrayal. Ken never told her what really happened.
“Have you seen him?” she asked. Daniel hesitated. “Not in person. But… he called me a few weeks ago. Sounded strange. Asked about his father.” “His father?” “Yeah,” Daniel said slowly. “He said he kept dreaming about him. Said the dreams felt real.” Lilian gripped the phone tighter. “Ken told me his father was dead.” “He is. Been dead for years. You didn’t know?”
She swallowed hard. “I know he died, but Ken never talks about him.” Daniel sighed. “There’s a lot he doesn’t talk about.” “Like what?” “Lilian,” Daniel said softly, “maybe you should let this go.” “I can’t.”
There was silence on the other end, then Daniel’s voice came back lower, more careful. “Then you should know this—Ken’s father didn’t just die. He killed himself. In their house. Ken was the one who found him.”
Lilian’s knees buckled. She sank into a chair, gripping the phone. “What?” “They said it was depression,” Daniel continued, “but I think there was more to it. Ken never forgave his mother. Said she pushed him too far. After that, he changed. He started running from people. From everything.” “Why didn’t he tell me?” “Because,” Daniel said, “to Ken, love always ends the same way. Someone leaves.” The line went quiet.
That night, Lilian drove to Ken’s mother’s house. The drive was long and the air thick with the weight of questions. She hadn’t seen her mother-in-law, in nearly a year. The older woman had stopped visiting after the last big fight, saying only, “You can’t save a man who still lives with ghosts.”
When Lilian arrived, Margaret was sitting on the porch, wrapped in a shawl, a cigarette burning between her fingers. “I knew you’d come,” she said without looking up. “You’ve spoken to Ken?” Margaret smiled thinly. “He’s my son. He always calls before he breaks something.” “What does that mean?”
The older woman looked up, her eyes sharp, the same gray as Ken’s. “It means he’s been seeing things again. Hearing his father’s voice. When he’s like that, he doesn’t know who he is—or who you are.” Lilian stepped closer. “He told me he loved me.” Margaret nodded slowly. “He does. That’s the problem.” “What happened to his father?”
The cigarette burned to ash. “You don’t want to know.” “I do.” Margaret stood and looked out at the yard, her voice low. “He killed himself in front of Ken. He said he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. Said the house was cursed with it.” Lilian’s breath caught. “The silence?”
Margaret turned to her. “Yes. It runs in the blood. The men in this family don’t shout when they’re angry. They disappear. They don’t cry when they’re sad. They vanish. They leave pieces of themselves scattered in other people until there’s nothing left to hold.” Lilian felt something inside her unravel. “Is that what’s happening to him?” Margaret’s eyes glistened. “No. That’s what’s happening to you.”
Lilian sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space beside her. The pillow still carried the faint scent of perfume that wasn’t hers. She couldn’t tell if it was the same one as before—sweet and sharp, like flowers left too long in a vase. She ran her hand over the sheet, half expecting to find something—proof that he had been there, or proof that she was losing her mind.
The silence pressed down on her until she couldn’t breathe. She got dressed and went downstairs, where the morning light made the dust on the furniture glow like ash. The wedding photo was still lying face down on the nightstand. She picked it up, wiped the glass with her sleeve, and stared at the two smiling faces inside. Her own eyes seemed different—brighter, almost foolish. His, on the other hand, looked exactly the same as they always had: calm, unreadable, slightly deceptive. She placed the photo back on the wall. For the first time, she realized that the horror wasn’t in the arguments, or in the disappearances—it was in how easily everything returned to normal.
On the kitchen counter, she found something new. A folded note, written in Ken’s handwriting: “Don’t dig into things you won’t understand. – K.” Her heart lurched. The paper trembled in her hand. She wanted to laugh, but it came out as a broken sound between a gasp and a sob. “Too late,” she whispered. That day, she went looking for the past.
It started with a phone call—to a number she hadn’t dialed in years. “Hello?” A man’s voice answered, cautious. “Daniel? It’s Lilian.” A pause. Then, a slow exhale. “Lilian. Wow. It’s been a long time.”
Daniel had been Ken’s closest friend once. Best man at their wedding. The one who always said Ken had “a good heart, just hard edges.” They hadn’t spoken since Ken had fallen out with him two years ago—some argument about money, or maybe betrayal. Ken never told her what really happened.
“Have you seen him?” she asked. Daniel hesitated. “Not in person. But… he called me a few weeks ago. Sounded strange. Asked about his father.” “His father?” “Yeah,” Daniel said slowly. “He said he kept dreaming about him. Said the dreams felt real.” Lilian gripped the phone tighter. “Ken told me his father was dead.” “He is. Been dead for years. You didn’t know?”
She swallowed hard. “I know he died, but Ken never talks about him.” Daniel sighed. “There’s a lot he doesn’t talk about.” “Like what?” “Lilian,” Daniel said softly, “maybe you should let this go.” “I can’t.”
There was silence on the other end, then Daniel’s voice came back lower, more careful. “Then you should know this—Ken’s father didn’t just die. He killed himself. In their house. Ken was the one who found him.”
Lilian’s knees buckled. She sank into a chair, gripping the phone. “What?” “They said it was depression,” Daniel continued, “but I think there was more to it. Ken never forgave his mother. Said she pushed him too far. After that, he changed. He started running from people. From everything.” “Why didn’t he tell me?” “Because,” Daniel said, “to Ken, love always ends the same way. Someone leaves.” The line went quiet.
That night, Lilian drove to Ken’s mother’s house. The drive was long and the air thick with the weight of questions. She hadn’t seen her mother-in-law, in nearly a year. The older woman had stopped visiting after the last big fight, saying only, “You can’t save a man who still lives with ghosts.”
When Lilian arrived, Margaret was sitting on the porch, wrapped in a shawl, a cigarette burning between her fingers. “I knew you’d come,” she said without looking up. “You’ve spoken to Ken?” Margaret smiled thinly. “He’s my son. He always calls before he breaks something.” “What does that mean?”
The older woman looked up, her eyes sharp, the same gray as Ken’s. “It means he’s been seeing things again. Hearing his father’s voice. When he’s like that, he doesn’t know who he is—or who you are.” Lilian stepped closer. “He told me he loved me.” Margaret nodded slowly. “He does. That’s the problem.” “What happened to his father?”
The cigarette burned to ash. “You don’t want to know.” “I do.” Margaret stood and looked out at the yard, her voice low. “He killed himself in front of Ken. He said he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. Said the house was cursed with it.” Lilian’s breath caught. “The silence?”
Margaret turned to her. “Yes. It runs in the blood. The men in this family don’t shout when they’re angry. They disappear. They don’t cry when they’re sad. They vanish. They leave pieces of themselves scattered in other people until there’s nothing left to hold.” Lilian felt something inside her unravel. “Is that what’s happening to him?” Margaret’s eyes glistened. “No. That’s what’s happening to you.”
