Chapter 4

The chocolate cake sat in the center of the dining table, its surface glossy and perfect. I'd spent the afternoon carefully decorating it with swirls of dark ganache, each one a silent testament to another year passed. My forty-fifth birthday. Possibly my last.

Dusk settled outside the windows as I lit the candles one by one, their warm glow reflecting in the polished surface of the table I'd set with our best china. The house was quiet—too quiet—but I held onto a fragile hope that someone would remember. That for once, on this day of all days, I might matter.