Henry knows exactly how I take my tea. He notices when I grow quiet. He gently brushes crumbs off my sweater without drawing attention to it.
People often said we were inseparable—lucky to have found each other so young. I believed that too.
But Henry had one unusual rule. One thing he repeated for years:
“Please don’t go into my garage.”
The garage was his sanctuary. Late at night, I’d hear old jazz drifting out, along with the faint smell of turpentine. Sometimes the door was locked, and he’d spend hours inside.
Once, I teased him, “What, is there another woman in there?”
He laughed. “Just my mess, Rosie. Trust me—you don’t want to see it.”
I never pushed. In sixty years of marriage, I’d learned that everyone deserves a space of their own.
Still, something began to feel… off. I’d catch him staring at me—not lovingly, but with a quiet fear, like he was bracing for something.
One afternoon, Henry was heading to the market and forgot his gloves on the kitchen table. Thinking he was still in the garage, I went to bring them to him.
The door was slightly ajar. Dust floated in a beam of afternoon light.
