She held the drawing to the light and saw, faintly, two small figures in the window. And she understood at last.
She had known him for twelve years, but never once had she seen the whole of him. Not because he hid—he was open, generous with his stories, his laughter, his silences. But every so often, late at night, when the fire had burned low and the wine had gone to that quiet place between truth and sleep, she would catch it: a flicker behind his gaze, like a door left ajar in a dark house. secrets in their eyes
Not lies. Just secrets . Old ones. The kind that don't ask to be kept, but are too heavy to give away. She held the drawing to the light and