Richard was standing by the counter, holding a mug of tea.

He looked up, a warm smile spreading across his face, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“How was your lunch?” he asked.

“It was quiet,” I said.

I didn’t move from the doorway of the kitchen.

Richard set his mug down on the granite countertop with a soft clink.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “You look pale.”

“I met Rose,” I said.

The name hung in the warm air between us, heavy and cold.

Richard’s hand stayed on the handle of his mug, but his fingers tightened.

The crinkles around his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid stillness.

“Who?” he asked, though his voice lacked its previous warmth.

“Rose,” I repeated, stepping fully into the kitchen. “The woman from the photograph. The woman whose name is tattooed on your chest.”

He took his hand off the mug and let it drop to his side.

Outside, the wind gusted, rattling the kitchen windowpane.

“Evelyn,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”