Fred stood in the center of his small living room, the phone still warm in his hand. Annabel’s frantic, tear-filled voice still echoed in his mind.
He let his arm drop to his side, and the phone slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the worn carpet.
He didn't even flinch. He just stared at the spot on the wall where a framed photo of him and Annabel used to hang.
He had taken it down last week, but the pale, rectangular space still mocked him.
He had lied. He wasn't at work. He had been home all morning, staring out the window, trying to convince himself that the suffocating emptiness he felt was simply the result of a bad night's sleep.
But it wasn't. It was because he knew she would call. He had seen the first missed call an hour ago, then another, and another.
