The morning light carved Daniel's face into angles I'd never seen before.
I raised the camera, adjusting the focus until his jaw sharpened against the white pillow. Sleep stripped away his careful therapist's smile, left something raw beneath.
Beautiful. Breakable.
๐๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ.
The sound cut through the bedroom's quiet like a confession.
Daniel's breathing stayed evenโseven years of marriage, and he could sleep through artillery fire. I'd tested this theory more than once, creeping around our house at three AM with my camera, documenting the version of him that existed only in unconsciousness.
The version that belonged to me.
I shifted closer, angling for the shot where morning light caught the silver threading through his dark hair. Thirty-four and already going gray.
The stress of other people's trauma, he'd joke. As if their pain leaked into his sleep.
๐๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ.
The lens cap slipped from my fingers.
It hit the hardwood with a plastic snap, then rolledโof course it rolledโstraight under his desk. I froze, camera suspended mid-air, waiting for Daniel to stir.
Nothing. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest.
I crept across the room, bare feet silent on the cold floor. The lens cap had wedged itself between the desk leg and the wall, naturally.
I dropped to my knees, reaching into the narrow space.
My fingers brushed something else. Something that shouldn't be there.
A drawer. Hidden beneath the desk's main surface, built into the shadow where no one would look.
No handle. Just a thin seam in the wood and a small brass lock, tarnished with age.
I sat back on my heels, staring.
Seven years. Seven years of sharing this room, this desk, this life. Daniel worked here every evening, patient files spread across the surface, his careful handwriting filling page after page.
I'd photographed him here dozens of timesโthe dedicated therapist, helping others heal while his own scars stayed hidden.
How had I never noticed?
The lock looked old. Antique. The kind you'd find in estate sales, attached to jewelry boxes or diary clasps.
My pulse quickened as I studied it, looking for scratches, wear patterns, anything that might tell me how often it had been opened.
The metal was clean. Recently used.
I pressed my ear to the wood. Silence.
But something was insideโI could feel the weight of it, the way the drawer settled slightly when I touched the lock.
"Mara?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. I spun around, still on my knees, the lens cap forgotten.
Daniel stood in the doorway, hair mussed, wearing only pajama pants. Sleep clung to his features, but his eyes were alert now.
Focused on me crouched beside his desk like a thief.
"What are you doing?"
The question hung between us, innocent enough. But something in his voiceโa careful flatness I'd never heard beforeโmade my mouth go dry.
"Dropped my lens cap." I held up the camera as proof, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
He didn't move from the doorway. "You were taking pictures."
"You know I do that." I stood, brushing dust from my knees. "You're beautiful when you sleep."
The compliment should have softened him. Usually did. Daniel was vain about his looks in the quiet way damaged men often wereโhungry for reassurance, for proof he was worth loving.
Instead, his jaw tightened. "I don't like being photographed without permission."
"Since when?"
"Since always." He crossed the room, movements too controlled. "You just never asked."
I watched him approach, noting the way he angled his body between me and the desk. Protective. Territorial.
"Dannyโ"
"Don't." The word came out sharp, then he caught himself. Softened. "Please. I'm sorry. I'm just... tired."
But he wasn't tired. He was frightened.
I'd seen that look before, in the early days of our marriage when nightmares would drag him from sleep, gasping and disoriented. The same wide-eyed panic of a man who'd lost time and couldn't account for it.
"Bad dream?" I asked.
He nodded too quickly. "Something like that."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." He moved past me, opening the desk's main drawerโthe one I'd always known about. Patient files, pens, a small bottle of anxiety medication he thought I didn't know about.
Normal things. Safe things.
His hand brushed the edge of the hidden drawer, and I saw him flinch.
"I'm going to make coffee," he said, not looking at me. "Want some?"
"Sure."
He left without another word, and I stood alone in the room that suddenly felt too small. The morning light had shifted, throwing different shadows across the floor.
The hidden drawer seemed to pulse in the darkness beneath the desk, like a heartbeat.
I retrieved my lens cap and followed him to the kitchen, where he stood at the counter with his back to me, shoulders rigid. The coffee maker gurgled between us, filling the silence with false normalcy.
"The Hendersons called last night," I said, settling onto a barstool. "About the anniversary party photos."
"Mm-hmm."
"They want to know if you'll be there. As my plus-one."
He turned, and for a moment, his face was completely blank. Empty.
As if he'd forgotten who the Hendersons were, forgotten we'd been invited, forgotten he had a wife who took pictures for a living.
Then recognition clicked back into place. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it."
But the blankness lingered around his eyes. The same look he got when patients asked about his childhood, about the mother he'd never quite explained.
The practiced smile that meant the conversation was over.
I studied his face as he poured coffee, cataloging details the way I would for a shoot. The slight tremor in his hands. The way he avoided meeting my eyes.
The coffee mugโhis favorite, the one with the chipped handleโthat he gripped too tightly.
"Daniel?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
He looked up then, and for just a moment, I saw something flicker across his features. Fear. Confusion.
And beneath it all, a desperate kind of love that made my chest ache.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just tired."
He handed me my coffee, and his fingers brushed mine. Warm. Steady. Real.
But upstairs, the locked drawer waited in the shadows, holding secrets that felt heavier than the morning light could bear.
I sipped my coffee and smiled at my husband, even as my mind raced with questions I wasn't sure I wanted answered.
Because in seven years of marriage, I'd learned one thing about Daniel Kessler:
When he said he was fine, he was lying.
And when he lied, people had a habit of disappearing.
---
๐๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ข๐ง๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฏ, ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ญ๐ฆ ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ช๐ฆ๐ญ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ข๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐จ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ค๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ด๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ, ๐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ต๐ถ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฌ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ข ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ฑ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ข ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐๐ถ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ถ๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐ช๐ข๐ญ.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ค๐ฌ ๐ค๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ณ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ณ๐บ.
๐๐ฏ๐ด๐ช๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ข๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ: ๐ข ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ-๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ซ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ข๐ญ, ๐ช๐ต๐ด ๐ฑ๐ข๐จ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ง๐ง ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ถ๐ด๐ต-๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ด.
๐ ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐ณ๐ด๐ต ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ณ๐บ, ๐ฅ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ข๐จ๐ฐ.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ธ๐ณ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ช๐ฆ๐ญ'๐ดโ๐'๐ฅ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐จ๐ฏ๐ช๐ป๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ค๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ๐ง๐ถ๐ญ ๐ด๐ค๐ณ๐ช๐ฑ๐ต ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ.
๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ๐ด...
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ณ๐ช๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ.