Cold Marble
The store’s chill seeped into my bones. Frozen behind the shelf, limbs icy. Nails dug into my palm, pain anchoring me. Mind blank, buzzing. Through the shelf gap and streaked window, I saw Mark pause by the hotel doors. He checked his watch. What was he waiting for? Time congealed. A black ride-share car slid silently to the curb. Mark strode down the steps. He pulled the door open, ducked inside—profile taut, expressionless. The door shut. The black car vanished into the wet traffic. Inside the store, the clerk’s video ended. Abrupt silence. I leaned against the cold shelf, gasping. Breathless from the last few minutes. The cheap store scents—air freshener, instant noodles, the lingering ghost of that cloying perfume—assaulted me. I coughed violently, tears springing.

The hotel location shared by my best friend is the same one my husband often stays at
Lily's Drawing
Dazed, I started the car. Wipers still swayed. My phone buzzed on the passenger seat—Lily’s preschool teacher. Jolted alert, I answered shakily. "Mrs. Williams?" the teacher’s kind voice came. "Lily seems a bit off today. Low fever, not herself. Could you possibly collect her early?" Lily sick! Ice water drenched my turmoil. "How high? I—I’ll come now!" My voice trembled. "38.2°C. Just taken. Don't panic, probably just a chill.

Drive carefully." Hanging up, I spun the wheel. Tires screeched on wet pavement. Hotel, silhouette, pink stain—all forgotten. Rushing to the preschool, I pushed open the classroom door. Lily lay listlessly on a play table, cheeks flushed. Seeing me, her lip quivered, arms reaching. "Mommy…" My heart clenched. "It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s here," I choked out, rubbing her back. Lily nuzzled me. "Mommy, I drew a picture. For Daddy…" Her little hand dug into her coat pocket, pulling out folded paper. Crayon stick figures—mommy, daddy, Lily. Big sun. Scrawled beside it: DAD.
The hotel location shared by my best friend is the same one my husband often stays at
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