Prescilla

Priscilla sat across from Elias at the dinner table, the candlelight flickering between them like a fragile thread. She knew the scent on his collar wasn’t hers, but she didn’t speak of it. Instead, she asked how his day was, spooning stew into his bowl with the same care she had on the night of their wedding. Elias looked at her—this woman who never yelled, never left—and for a fleeting second, guilt cracked through his charm. “Why do you still love me?” he asked, barely above a whisper. She smiled sadly and replied, “Because I remember the man you were before you forgot how to love me.”