Morning light didn't warm me.
It exposed me.
Made everything too real. Too clear.
Too hers.
The walls still smelled like her.
The hairbrush on the dresser still held strands of her hair.
The perfume on the vanity?
Her signature scent — Jasmine Blood.
That was Amelia's favorite.
And now it was expected to be mine.
---
I sat up, stiff.
The necklace he gave me last night was still around my neck — but tighter.
Or maybe my skin just didn't want to accept it.
Then I saw it.
The diary.
Still on the nightstand.
I opened it.
> "He only loves the version of me that breaks in silence."
"Never cry. He hates weakness."
"If you ever wake up in my place… run."
I stopped breathing.
Page after page — notes to herself. Or to someone else.
She was writing these like she knew someone would replace her.
Like she had planned this.
---
A knock broke the silence.
"Breakfast," the maid's voice said through the door.
I looked around the room.
Clothes were already laid out.
The same ivory silk blouse Amelia wore in her wedding photos.
Same pleated skirt. Same shoes.
Even her lipstick was there.
I felt sick.
---
Downstairs, he was already seated.
Reading something. Waiting.
He looked up, eyes calm.
> "You chose her favorite color," he said.
I hadn't.
The clothes were already there.
But I didn't correct him.
> "You look more like her today."
I didn't smile.
I didn't need to.
He was already satisfied with the lie.
---
We ate in silence.
He cut my toast for me.
Poured my tea.
Watched my hands.
> "You used to tremble, remember?" he asked softly.
I shook my head.
> "No?" He leaned in. "You used to be afraid. But I fixed that."
Fixed.
Not healed.
Not helped.
Fixed.
Like I was an object.
Like she was, too.
---
Later, I walked through the house.
Every photo — her.
Every voice assistant setting — her name.
Even the password to unlock the library?
> Amelia0629
Her birthday.
He didn't change a single thing.
---
I returned to the room and flipped through the diary again.
> "He watches when I sleep."
"He says he loves me. But only when I'm not speaking."
"One day, this heart will stop again. Let it rest, please."
I closed the book.
My hands were shaking now.
Then I heard the doorknob twist.
He walked in without knocking.
> "Did you find the diary?"
I froze.
> "It's alright," he said. "She wrote things. But memory lies, you know?"
He walked closer. Sat on the bed beside me.
His hand reached toward my chest. Rested there. Lightly. Over the scar.
> "The heart doesn't lie."