The next morning, Marissa arrived at my door with coffee and a bag packed for the clinic.
"Are you still sure about that, Gina?"
Dr. Halim was attentive, patient, and honest about the risks. The procedure itself took less time than expected.
The recovery was even stranger.
For two days, everything resembled a blurry watercolor.
On the third morning, I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling fan.
I actually saw it.
The blades, the starter chain, even the dust accumulated on the edges.
I cried for an hour.
A few days later, once Dr. Halim had reassured me that I could safely take care of myself, Marissa drove me home.
I stood in the hallway for a while, absorbed in details I had forgotten existed.
"The curtains are blue," I whispered. "I thought they were green. Brian always said they were green."
"They stayed blue the whole time," Marissa said cautiously.
I visited each room like a stranger being shown around someone else's house.
Photographs on the mantelpiece.
The splinter in the coffee table.
My own reflection in the bathroom mirror, older than I remembered, but unmistakably mine.
"I don't want to tell him yet," I said. "I want him to come in and see me looking at him."
Marissa smiled, but cautiously.
"Anything you want, Gina."
He left that afternoon after promising to come and see how I was doing.
Alone in the silent house, I suddenly remembered the boxes of Christmas lights that Brian had said were stored in the garage.
She had talked about it countless times over the years. Boxes of fairy lights, remnants of the previous December, were waiting in the garage. She wanted to hang them in the living room.
It had been years since I had seen the Christmas lights shining.
I headed towards the back door of the kitchen, the one I hadn't opened in ages.
My hand was resting on the door handle.
The metal was cold and slightly brittle, exactly as I had imagined it all these years without ever having touched it.
I filmed it.
The garage door creaked open.
I was expecting to find dust and engine oil.
On the contrary, I could smell the lavender.
My hand found the switch thanks to muscle memory.
The light bulbs flickered on.
And the world he had imagined for over a decade disappeared.
I stopped breathing.
There were no machines.
No tools required.
No storage containers or automotive equipment are allowed.
Instead of a living room, the garage had been transformed into a small relaxation area. A plush gray sofa sat next to a coffee table. A neatly made bed occupied one corner. A woman's coat hung on a hook near the side entrance.
The shelves were covered with framed photographs.
I moved a little closer, my legs trembling.
Brian was in all the photos.
He had his arm around a dark-haired woman as they smiled on a beach, in a restaurant, and in front of a Christmas tree I had never seen before.
My hands were trembling.
"That's not possible!" I shouted.
A pile of mail lay on a small table.
I took the first envelope.
It was addressed to a woman named Penelope.
I assumed that was the woman who was smiling next to my husband in the photos.
I had problems with my phone and I called Marissa.
"Gina? What's wrong?"
He was back in twenty minutes.
I heard the click of her heels as she walked down the driveway, then she pushed open the garage door and I froze.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "Gina, what is this?!"
"That's what Brian does," I said. "God only knows for how long."
"We need to look for anything that can make sense of all this," he suggested.
So we searched.
Marissa discovered a folder of documents in a drawer. It contained contracts and permits proving that Brian had converted the garage into a living space six years earlier.
Six years.
However, the furniture invoices, utility subscriptions for a second occupant, and change-of-address documents were all less than four months old. Previously, a framed certificate, hanging on the wall, indicated that the space was occupied by "B. Whitfield – Private Office."
He had prepared the room well before putting her in it.
I found another set of car keys near the side door.
There was also a woman's toothbrush in the small bathroom.
Marissa then handed me a note.
You should read this.
The letters were curved on the page.
