I woke to the relentless ticking of the clock in the hallway, each second a hammer strike against the silence that had become my constant companion. Five years. Five years since Lena walked out that door, her suitcase wheels rumbling over the gravel like an accusation. The bed beside me was a cold expanse, the sheets undisturbed save for the faint crease where I sometimes imagined her form still lingered. I reached out anyway, fingers brushing the fabric, chasing a ghost of warmth that never came.

The house was old, a Victorian relic on the edge of town, its walls groaning with every shift of the wind. I’d bought it with Lena twelve years ago, full of dreams about renovations and children. Now it was just me, rattling around in its cavernous rooms like a marble in a tin can. Downstairs, the kitchen light buzzed faintly as I poured coffee, black as the thoughts swirling in my head. The mug warmed my palms, but nothing touched the chill inside. Memories of her departure played on loop: the final argument, voices raised over money, fidelity—petty things magnified by exhaustion. ‘I’m leaving, Alex,’ she’d said, eyes hard. I’d stood there, paralyzed, watching her go. No plea, no chase. Just the slam of the door and the roar of her car fading into the night.

Work was a numb ritual. Accountant by trade, I balanced ledgers for faceless companies, numbers that never lied, never left. But lately, even they blurred. I’d stare at spreadsheets, seeing her face instead—smiling in our wedding photo, tear-streaked in fights. Were the memories accurate? Details slipped: Did she wear the blue dress that last night or the red? Did I apologize or shout back? The fuzziness unnerved me, like sand shifting underfoot.

It started subtly, the first crack in the facade. A whiff of jasmine-vanilla perfume drifting from the living room. Lena’s scent, one I’d buried with her clothes years ago. I froze mid-sip, coffee burning my tongue. Sniffed the air, followed it to the couch. Nothing. Imagination, grief’s cruel joke. Shook it off, but the unease lingered, a knot tightening in my gut.

Days passed in that vein, routine armor against the creeping doubt. But then the hairpin. Tucked in the bathroom sink’s overflow, a slender silver clip twisted just so—the kind she pinned her auburn waves with. I hadn’t seen one since she left. Rifled drawers, checked pockets. How? Heart raced as I held it, tiny barbs pricking my thumb. Placed it in the trash, but the next morning, another appeared on the nightstand.

Sleep fractured. Dreams bled into waking: Lena’s silhouette in the doorway, mouthing silent words. I’d jolt awake, room spinning, convinced footsteps padded above. The house settling, I’d tell myself, flipping on lights. Shadows danced mockingly.

The photo incident pushed it further. Our wedding frame on the mantel, I’d dusted it obsessively, aligning it perfectly eastward for morning light. Returned from work to find it rotated, facing the wall. No footprints in dust, no fingerprints. A chill slithered down my spine. Someone—or something—had been here. Her? Impossible. Locks were triple-checked.

Paranoia bloomed, slow and insidious. I scrutinized every corner, replaying memories for clues. Our fights: Had they been worse? One recollection, she slapped me, storming out. Another, I gripped her wrist too hard, bruising. Fabricated? No, I loved her. Still do, in this hollow ache.

Bought a handgun, stashed it loaded. Slept with doors bolted. Nights brought whispers—her voice, soft, accusatory. ‘Alex… why?’ I’d prowl halls, beam sweeping emptiness. Cameras next: four cheap units, feeds on my phone. Motion pings became obsession. A cat? Wind? Then, grainy footage: feminine form gliding through kitchen at 2 a.m., pausing at fridge. Rewound a dozen times. Tree shadow, angle tricked the eye. But the curve of hip, tilt of head—Lena.

Isolation deepened. No calls to friends; what to say? ‘My dead wife haunts me’? Work emails sufficed. The house closed in, walls pressing, air thick. Perfume saturated rooms now, hairpin trail leading upstairs. Sweater unearthed from attic trunk, fabric soft, scented fresh. Inhaled deeply, tears hot. Guilt surged: Had I pushed too far? Monsters lurk in nice men.

Nightmares intensified. Strangling fog, hands around throat—not dream hands, mine. Gasp, her eyes bulging. Woke screaming, sheets soaked. Dismissed as stress. But blood memory: crimson on carpet, scrubbed away? No stain visible.

Rainy evening shattered fragile calm. Humming from basement—her lullaby. Gun gripped white-knuckled, descended into damp dark. Flashlight cut swaths through boxes, cobwebs veiling secrets. ‘Lena?’ Echoes mocked. Empty. Upstairs, locks reinforced.

Locksmith came, new deadbolts gleaming. Better cams installed. Yet intrusions persisted: drawers ajar, clothes shifted. Memories warped hourly. Fight reconstruction: She packed, I blocked door. Pleaded. Rage flared. Push? Fall? Head crack on stairs. No, she drove away.

Pressure built, claustrophobic vise. Mirrors avoided—eyes hollow, accusatory stare. Basement again, inexplicable pull. Floor cold, loose board in corner noticed ages ago. Pryed with crowbar, splinters biting. Beneath: tin box, rusted. Inside, necklace—gold chain snapped, pendant smeared dark crust. Blood? Her heirloom, worn always.

Flash: Argument peaks. ‘Leave then!’ Hands fly, clasp throat. Gurgle. Limp drop. Panic. Necklace torn in struggle, pocketed. Body dragged…

No. Lie. She left.

Dizziness felled me. Attic called, ladder trembling under weight. Insulation yanked, plaster patched sloppily behind. Hammer swung wild, chunks flying. Hole yawned.

Skeleton curled fetal, tatters of blue dress—last night’s fight attire. Skulll vacant sockets stared. Jaw slack in eternal scream.

Knees buckled. Memories true now, floodgate burst. Killed her. Strangled fury. Walled attic alive? No, dead. Lived with corpse five years, mind crafting escape tale. Perfume? Mildew hallucinated. Hairpins? Self-planted guilt props. Shadows? Madness mirrors.

Reality fractured. House not empty—her prison, my tomb.

Crawled to bones, clutched femurs. ‘Lena… forgive.’ Whispered into void.

Clock ticked on. Sirens distant? No matter. Joined her soon. Home.