A House Without Her

The house felt wrong the moment Gabriel stepped inside.

Not quiet—quiet had lived here for years, learned and tolerated—but emptier. As though something essential had been lifted out, leaving the walls slightly hollowed, the air thinner than before.

He paused just past the doorway, keys still clenched in his fist. The automatic lights came on, revealing the familiar living room: the cream sofa Victoria had chosen because it didn’t irritate her eyes on bad days, the glass coffee table he’d always hated but never argued about, the pale curtains filtering the last of the evening light.

Everything looked exactly the same.

And yet—

“Victoria?” he called, already knowing there would be no answer.

His voice echoed too cleanly.

He frowned, checked his watch. She should have been home by now. Even on hospital days, she never stayed out this late without telling him. Routine had become her religion—medication times, meal windows, rest hours. She clung to predictability the way sick people did w