Author: rainbow axololt

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In the shadowed corners of Daniel’s elegant Victorian home, where sunlight filtered through lace curtains like hesitant apologies, I had spent the first months of our marriage learning to coexist with ghosts. Not the spectral kind that haunt old tales, but the quieter, more insidious variety: the faint imprint of a woman’s perfume lingering in the linen closet, the half-erased drawings on the refrigerator that bore another mother’s steady hand, the way my stepdaughters’ eyes would drift toward empty spaces as if listening to voices only they could hear.

I told myself it was natural. Daniel was a widower, after all—devoted, charming, and still visibly wounded by the loss

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