Fred sat at his small desk near the window, the evening sun spilling across the wooden surface.
The golden light made the dust in the air shimmer, reminding him of the quiet mornings he and Anabelle once shared.
He had been staring at his phone for almost an hour, the screen glowing softly, waiting for words that wouldn’t come.
He scrolled through social media again. Her face appeared everywhere — magazine covers, award photos, interviews, charity events. The caption on one of the posts read, “Anabelle Grey, redefining modern luxury for the world.”
Fred smiled faintly. “You’ve really done it, haven’t you?” he murmured.
Still, beneath his smile, there was a strange ache. The woman he had once known — the one who laughed while painting her own furniture, who burned toast every morning
