Still no sign of Ethan.
For the first time in ten years, a tiny voice whispered something I’d never imagined.
What if he chose not to come home?
Still no sign of Ethan.
Behind me, our house glowed with string lights, old photographs, and the careful evidence of ten years together.
There was Ethan at 21, asleep over a statistics textbook.
Ethan carrying our first secondhand sofa up three flights of stairs.
Ethan grinning beside the used Honda we bought because it leaked less oil than the car before it.
On the mantel, I had placed a photograph of us eating instant noodles from the same pot in our first apartment.
Behind me, our house glowed with string lights.
We owned two forks. Only one matched.
That was how our marriage began.
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