The Widow's Son: 6. The Lie of Normal

The morning after should have been awkward.

Instead, it was worse.

It was empty.

Caroline woke in a bed that still held the heat of Nathaniel’s body, the sheets tangled and damp with the evidence of what they’d done. But he was gone. No note. No voice. No whisper of regret or reassurance. Just the distant hum of morning birdsong and the too-loud tick of the antique clock above the fireplace.

Her body reminded her of him with every small movement—the ache between her thighs, the bruising weight in her hips, the ghost of his breath still clinging to her neck. But where her body hummed, her chest felt hollow.

She sat up slowly, hugging the sheet to her chest even though no one was there to see. For a moment she let herself imagine he’d return—carrying a tray, coffee in one hand, that crooked half-smile he only ever showed when he let his guard down. But the silence stretched too long, and the fantasy cracked.

When she finally dressed, her hands moved mechan