The lock on the front door turned with a firm, familiar click, announcing Fred’s arrival.
The evening air, cool and carrying the distant sounds of city life, followed him into the quiet apartment.
He shrugged off his suit jacket, the weight of the day lifting a fraction, and draped it over the back of the sofa.
“Annabel?” he called out, his voice soft, a habit more than an expectation.
Silence answered him.
Fred stood in the center of the living room, a space that always felt incomplete without her.
The apartment, with its simple furniture and walls adorned with framed architectural sketches, was neat, but it held a strange, empty quality tonight.
He looked at the low coffee table. Her mug, the one with the slight chip near the rim, was gone.
No rolled-up drawings lay haphaza
