Chapter2

I didn't log out of that account.

I kept scrolling through the woman's profile, working my way down.

My finger moved slowly, like I was confirming something I didn't want to confirm.

Photo after photo of the restaurant.

She'd photographed the cake, the wine glasses, his hand holding the ID, and that bottle of red wine on the table that I recognized.

I stared at the sconce on the wall in the background.

I'd been to that restaurant too many times. That lamp was in the second row by the window.

I thought about last month's statement.

That evening I'd been cooking in the kitchen when my phone pinged with a notification—a charge from our joint account.

I'd asked offhandedly, "Why was it so expensive today?"

He took off his jacket, set his phone on the entryway table, and said casually, "Client dinner. High-end place. Don't worry about it."

I'd nodded and didn't ask any more questions. I even felt silly for asking.

Now, looking at that photo, my heart sank bit by bit.

That supposed client dinner had been her anniversary meal.

I kept scrolling.

A photo of a hotel's night view stopped in the center of my screen.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows was the entire city lit up. Her caption read: "Working so late, good thing you're here with me."

Working so late.

I remembered that night immediately.

Daniel had texted me saying there was a last-minute issue with the project, that he'd be working late.

He'd even called, his voice tired: "I probably won't make it home tonight. Get to bed early."

I'd been holding my phone, telling him, "That's okay. Take care of yourself. I'll make you some soup when you're done."

I'd even had soup delivered to his office. The driver told me Daniel had already left.

I'd made excuses for him, saying he must have moved to a different meeting location.

Back then, I'd really believed him.

I set down my phone and pressed my temples, my mind slowly piecing together the timeline.

All those nights he said he was on business trips, working late, meeting clients—every single one left traces in her posts.

I scrolled back up to the funeral day.

That morning, standing outside the cemetery with ice-cold hands, I'd called him.

He didn't answer. Ten minutes later, he sent a text.

"Lost my ID, need to get it replaced. Handle things yourself first. I'll be there later."

No greeting, no comfort, not one "I'm sorry."

I'd stared at that text for a long time. When relatives asked when he'd arrive, I made excuses for him:

"He's swamped at work. Losing your ID is such a hassle. He'll come right after he takes care of it."

I'd even told myself to be understanding.

I found reasons for him in my head.

Told myself he was just tied up with work, that he must be hurting too.

Now I understood. His "replacement" was so her birthday would be forever preserved in the issue date on the back of his ID.

I couldn't help but whisper, "So that's how it is."

The words sounded especially clear in the empty room.

I got up and walked to the bedroom. In the nightstand drawer were copies of documents he'd made when handling paperwork before.

I remembered clearly—I'd organized them and put them there myself.

I pulled open the drawer and took out the papers.

My hands were shaking slightly. I took a deep breath, set my phone beside me, and zoomed in on the photo again.

I compared detail by detail.

The issuing authority's position, the font size, the serial number arrangement.

I looked at the hand in the photo again.

The wedding ring on the ring finger, in the same position as always.

The curve of the old scar on the back of the hand matched perfectly.

No discrepancies whatsoever.

I put the papers back in the drawer and closed it slowly.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor for a while.

I didn't cry.

My eyes felt dry and painful, but no tears would come.

I just felt cold. That cold spread from my heart through my entire body, like someone had thrown open all the windows, letting the bitter air rush straight in.

Colder than the wind that had blown through the cemetery on the day of the funeral.