The faint sound of water tapping against the window frame echoed softly.
Remnants of the storm lingered in the air, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and a coldness that clung between the house's walls.
Streetlights began to glow one by one, lit by an old man whose job was to make his rounds at dusk.
Every night, he repeated the same ritual.
And every early morning, he would return—silently extinguishing them.
The houses in Arlico were rarely close to one another. Most stood far apart, sunken into wide yards and surrounded by silent trees.
It was hard to guess what the neighbors were doing—or even who lived behind those windows, always hidden behind thick curtains.
But they had their own way of staying connected.
Inviting each other to dinner.
Watching in secret.
Memorizing each other's footsteps.
Just like the house of Detective Théodore Levingston—my husband who seldom returned on time, always caught up in urgent matters and unfinished mysteries.
But tonight, for some reason, felt different.
After preparing the fish soup and setting it on the dining table, I heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house.
I turned. Slowly.
He was home... earlier than usual.
His footsteps echoed softly on the wooden balcony floor. Not hurried, but firm.
Then the key turned.
Once.
And the door opened.
"You're home early," I said from the kitchen, peeking out while drying my hands with a towel.
He removed his leather gloves slowly.
"Yes. No important cases."
I gave a faint smile. Washed my hands. Took off my apron.
Then sat near him, offering a bowl of warm soup along with some slices of soft whole-wheat bread.
"I hope you haven't eaten outside," I said with a slightly playful tone.
"I made it with love."
As usual, he didn't say much.
Just tasted it, then gave a small nod.
"Good," he murmured.
Short. Flat. But enough.
I didn't eat. I simply sat there in silence, watching him.
Observing him.
Memorizing the lines of his jaw.
The movements of his fingers.
The slow blink of his eyes.
And then, without much thought, I asked the question.
Purely as a joke. A tease. Like always.
"You... killed someone again, didn't you?"
He froze.
His spoon hovered in midair. His eyes moved slowly, turning to me—piercing through the curtain of my hair.
He didn't laugh. Didn't raise an eyebrow. Didn't answer.
Silence.
His hand remained on the table.
I tilted my head slightly, trying to smile—to cover the unease creeping into my chest.
"Hey... it's just a joke. You're not actually serious, right?"
He kept looking at me.
For a long time.
His eyes didn't show anger. Nor tenderness.
But there was something in them.
A kind of depth—like a black pool that looked calm... yet you could never see the bottom of it.
"I know," he said finally.
His voice was hoarse. Low.
And far too quiet for a room this silent.
"But... why would you joke about something like that?"
His body was now fully facing me.
Still. Intense.
I felt my back slowly stiffen.
"Why would you even think... I'm capable of killing someone?"
His face came closer. Just an inch from mine.
His fingers lifted my chin with two of his own.
Gentle, but offering no room to pull away.
"Did you see something, darling?"
I caught the scent of his coat—leather and metal. Cold. Clean.
Too precise.
And then, I saw it—just beyond his broad frame, on the collar of his shirt:
a stain.
Small.
But real.
Red.
"I was only joking," I whispered.
"You're... not angry, right?"
My voice trembled. Soft.
Too faint to be clearly fear… or maybe too honest to be calm.
Something warm curled inside my stomach.
A strange mix of anxiety and... something I couldn't quite explain.
And he... smiled.
That smile.
The one only I knew the meaning of.