The house felt cold, even with the heater on. Steve sat in the living room, staring at the front door. It was nearly midnight. This was the third time this week. When the handle finally turned, Elena stumbled in. The smell of cheap gin hit the air before she even spoke. His wife was a drunkard, an alcoholic. No, it was not because she was depressed or not; it was a habit."You’re late again," Steve said, his voice flat."Save it, Steve," Elena hissed, swaying on her feet. Her hair was a bird’s nest, and her mascara was smeared. When he reached out to help her, she shoved his chest. "Get off me! I don't need your lecturing. I'm fine. I'm more than fine, I'm... I'm wonderful. Unlike this morgue you call a house. Go back to your chair, Steve. Go back to being boring. You just sit there like a statue, judging me with those dead eyes. It’s pathetic. You think you're so much better than me, but you're just a ghost."She tried to walk toward the stairs but tripped over her own heels. Steve w
Dernière mise à jour : 2026-02-28 Read More