Chapter 2
Thirty days after Claire's departure, Ethan found himself thinking of her constantly, not on purpose, but because her presence lingered in every corner of his life.
Each morning when he woke, his gaze drifted instinctively to the nightstand, where a glass of water had once waited for him every single day.
Every evening when he returned home, he'd pause at the door, half-expecting the familiar figure who'd always greeted him with a smile.
He'd kept every sticky note from the fridge, pasting them on the kitchen wall to read once a day.
[Don't forget breakfast.]
[No staying up late.]
[It's going to rain. Take an umbrella.]
Simple reminders, each one a painful reminder that someone had once loved him with such quiet devotion.
Sophia had asked him out several times, but he'd turned her down, claiming work was too busy.
It wasn't that he didn't want to see her; rather, every time he was with Sophia, he couldn't help but compare her to Claire.
Sophia favored fancy restaurants, while Claire had always cooked his favorite dishes better than any eatery could.
Sophia spoke in a sweet, delicate tone, while Claire was always soft-spoken, never saying more than she needed to.
Sophia demanded to be spoiled, but Claire? She'd never asked him for anything at all.
A harsh realization hit Ethan: in three years, Claire had never made a single request of him.
No gifts, no companionship, not even an "I love you."
She'd taken whatever he gave and never complained when he gave nothing.
He'd always thought this was just her being sensible, but now he understood: it was because she'd felt unworthy.
Because she'd known she was a substitute, she'd never dared to hope for more.
A sharp pain clamped down on Ethan's heart, leaving him breathless.
He hired people to find Claire, but she'd vanished without a trace, her phone still disconnected.
Ethan had asked everyone she'd ever known, but no one had a clue where she'd gone.
*****
A month later, a private detective finally uncovered a lead. "Ms. Nolan rented an apartment in Ringston City three months ago, using her mother's identification."
Ethan drove to Ringston City that very night.
The place was an old, run-down neighborhood. The apartment was small, up on the sixth floor, and there wasn't even an elevator.
Standing downstairs, staring up at the lit window, he suddenly felt too afraid to go up.
He had no idea what to say to her, or if she'd even want to see him.
After standing there for a full hour, he summoned the courage to climb the stairs.
Ethan knocked on the door, but an unfamiliar elderly woman answered.
"Who are you looking for?" she asked.
"Hi, does Claire Nolan live here?" Ethan asked.
"Claire Nolan?" The old lady thought for a moment. "Oh, you mean the girl who rented here before? She moved out about two weeks ago."
Ethan was stunned. "Moved out? Where did she go?"
"No idea, she didn't say." The woman studied him closely. "What are you to her?"
What was he to her? Ethan opened his mouth, only to find he had no answer. He was her husband, yet he'd never treated her like a wife.
*****
On the sixtieth day of Claire's absence, Ethan got drunk at the company's annual gala.
His driver dropped him off at home, and he stumbled into the bedroom, calling out instinctively, "Claire, get me a glass of water."
However, no one responded.
He froze, staring at the empty room, then squatted down, burying his head in his knees as tears finally spilled.
At forty, Ethan Grant, a man who was ruthless and unyielding in the business world, felt regret for the first time in his life.
He thought of Claire's eyes the day she left: calm, resolute, no trace of hesitation.
She'd asked him, "Ethan, Sophia's back. Let's get a divorce."
How had he responded?
"What are you throwing a fit about?" he'd said.
She'd never thrown a fit. For three years, she'd been as quiet as a plant in the corner—water her, and she'd thrive, never demanding sunlight.
And he'd truly treated her like a plant, thinking she had no heart, no feelings, no capacity to hurt.
The next day, Ethan went to Sophia's home.
When Sophia opened the door and saw him, her eyes lit up. "Ethan, you finally came to see me."
But Ethan stood at the doorway, not stepping inside.
"Sophia, what's between us is in the past," he said.
He looked at her, suddenly noticing how little she actually resembled Claire.
"I'm here to tell you that don't contact me again," he added.
Sophia's face paled. "Why? Because of that substitute?"
Ethan retorted, his voice icy, "She's not a substitute. Her name is Claire Nolan. She's my wife."
"Your wife?" Sophia echoed in disbelief.
Then, she let out a cold laugh. "Come on, Ethan. You only married her because she looks like me.
"Now that the real deal is back, you're actually going to give up on me for some stand-in?"
Ethan stared at her, feeling a strange sense of unfamiliarity.
How could the woman he'd once loved say something so cruel?
He cut her off. "Sophia, I've never been more sober in my life.
"For three years, I was blind. I mistook a pearl for a pebble.
"Now that she's gone, I realize how stupid I was."
He then turned and walked away, ignoring Sophia's hysterical shout behind him. "Ethan, you'll regret this!"
However, Ethan didn't look back.
He was already eaten alive by regret, so much it hurt.
On the ninetieth day of Claire's absence, Ethan finally got another lead on her.
The private detective discovered she'd opened a cozy little reservation-only eatery in Coston City, serving just three tables a day.
Ethan booked a flight and rushed over that very day.
The eatery was tucked away in a narrow alley in the old town, its storefront so small it was easy to miss.
Standing at the door, he stared at the wooden sign: [Claire's Corner.]
Just those two simple words, but they made his eyes burn with emotion.
He pushed the door open. Inside, there were only a few tables, cozy and warm, with dried flowers and handwritten menus hanging on the walls.
A young girl approached him. "Sir, do you have a reservation?"
"I'm looking for Claire Nolan," Ethan replied.
The girl paused, a bit taken aback. "And you are..."
"I'm her husband," Ethan replied, his voice steady.
Right as he said that, the curtain to the kitchen swung open.
Claire stood there, wearing a simple white shirt and apron, her hair tied back casually.
When she saw him, her face stayed perfectly calm, as if he was just any other customer.
"Mr. Grant, long time no see," she said, her voice calm and neutral.
Not Ethan, not honey, but Mr. Grant.
A sharp pain stabbed Ethan's heart, so intense he could barely stand.
He took a shaky step forward, his voice trembling. "Claire, come home with me."
A faint smile appeared on Claire's face as she looked at him.
It was so subtle, it was almost invisible.
"Home? Mr. Grant, that place was never my home. It never has been," she said.
Ethan stood frozen, unable to move.
Without another look at him, Claire turned to the girl and said, "Maddie, see him out."
With that, she lifted the curtain and headed back to the kitchen.
Ethan tried to follow, but Maddie Summers blocked his path.
"Sir, please leave. You're disturbing our business," Maddie said firmly.
Ethan looked at her, his voice pleading. "Just let me see her, just once."
"Claire said she won't see you. If you don't leave now, I'll call the cops," Maddie replied, her tone unwavering.
Ethan stood frozen, eyes locked on the curtain, unable to move for what felt like forever.
Eventually, he had no choice but to turn and leave.
But he didn't go far; he settled on the steps across the alley, waiting.
He waited until dark, until the restaurant closed, until Claire walked out.
When she saw him, she paused for a moment, then acted like she hadn't seen him at all and kept walking.
Ethan called out, "Claire," and hurried after her.
She halted and turned to meet his gaze.
Under the pale glow of the streetlamp, her face looked leaner than it had three years before, yet her complexion was clear, and her eyes held a brightness he'd never seen.
"Did you want to say something, Mr. Grant?" Her voice was polite, but cool.
"I..." Ethan stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.
He wanted to say sorry, to tell her he missed her, to beg her to come home with him.
But looking into her calm eyes, he realized how ridiculous those words would sound.
Claire waited a few seconds, and when he didn't say anything, she turned and walked away.
He stood frozen, watching her silhouette dissolve into the night, before sinking down to crouch on the pavement, hugging his knees and burying his face in his arms.
For the first time in forty years, he felt completely powerless, utterly defeated.
*****
On the hundredth day after Claire left, Ethan didn't try to find her anymore. It wasn't that he didn't want to—he was afraid.
He was afraid of her calm eyes, of hearing her call him "Mr. Grant" once more, afraid he might shatter completely if he tried.
So instead, he began to write.
One letter each day, page after page filled with ordinary details, then mailed to "Claire's Corner".
No grand declarations, just the small truths of his days.
[The project I spent three years on finally closed today. Back then, you were still here, making late-night snacks, waiting up no matter how late I worked. I used to think that was your duty. Now I know that no one owes anyone anything.]
[I went to the supermarket today to get some groceries, thinking I'd try making those noodles you used to cook. Burned it, ruined the pot, too. I never realized how much care it took to make something so simple taste that good.]
[Dreamt about you last night. You were home again. I asked why you weren't speaking, and you just looked at me, smiling until tears fell. My pillow was soaked when I woke up.]
[Claire, I don't know if you'll ever read these, or if you'll ever want to see me again. But I'll keep writing. I want you to know someone in this world has finally learned to treasure what he has.]
No replies came. The letters seemed to disappear into silence. He wrote anyway, sending them out like messages in bottles, cast into a still sea.
*****
On the hundred and fifth day, a postcard arrived.
One line, in her handwriting: [Ethan, let go.]
He spent the whole night in his office, holding that postcard in his hand, lost in his thoughts.
The next day, it was business as usual—Ethan showed up at work, sat through meetings, signed papers, acting as if nothing had changed.
Only his driver noticed how every evening, the car would wind through the old district's narrow lanes and pause outside that shuttered eatery.
One day, the driver couldn't help asking, "Mr. Grant, want me to go knock?"
Ethan shook his head. "Don't bother."
He simply sat, staring at the closed door as if by looking long enough it might open, as if the familiar figure might step out once more and greet him.
And then, one day, Claire's Corner was closed for good. A new sign appeared in the window, announcing the space was for lease.
Claire was gone without a trace. Not even Maddie knew where.
Later, standing in the empty space, watching the handwritten menus being peeled slowly from the walls, he remembered her words from that day. "That place was never my home. It never has been."
And at last, he understood. He had lost her truly, finally.