I used to believe that quiet meant indifference. That when someone didn't speak, it was because they didn't care.
But with Richard, silence has become something else.
Something alive.
A space where things bloom slowly. Carefully. Like a flower that only opens when no one is looking.
My aunt stayed in the guest room that week, which meant I spent most evenings treading carefully between obligation and exhaustion.
She complained about the staff, about the soup being too cold, the towels too stiff, the scent in the hallway "too rich" for her sensitive nose. It was like having a running monologue of dissatisfaction echoing behind me wherever I went.
"You should tell your husband not to waste money on unnecessary decor," she said, frowning at a sculpture in the corridor. "Pretentious thing. Bet it cost a fortune."
I didn't answer. I'd long stopped trying to correct her perceptions.
But that night, as I helped her into bed, she said something that stayed with me.
"You know this won't last, right?" she murmured, adjusting her pillow. "Men like him don't stay. Not for women like you."
I stared at her.
"I'm not saying it to be cruel," she added. "I'm saying it so you remember who you are. So you won't be surprised when it ends."
I wanted to tell her she was wrong.
But a small, scared part of me wasn't sure she was.
Richard didn't ask about my mood when I came down to dinner later. He never did when he sensed I didn't want to talk. But I think he knew something was off.
He set down his fork halfway through the meal and asked, "Would you like to go somewhere tomorrow?"
I blinked. "Somewhere?"
He nodded. "Out of the house. Just for the afternoon."
I stared at him for a moment, wondering if this was his version of an escape plan—or maybe a lifeline.
"Alright," I said. "Where?"
"I'll show you."
The next day, he didn't wear a suit.
That alone was startling.
He showed up at the car in a navy sweater and dark jeans. No buttons, no cufflinks. Just a watch and a soft wool coat. His hair looked less rigid, like he hadn't combed it perfectly, and I couldn't stop myself from staring for a moment too long.
"You're… dressed down," I said, climbing into the passenger seat.
"I thought it would scare fewer children if I didn't show up in a three-piece," he replied.
I laughed before I could help myself.
"Where are we going?"
He didn't answer, just started the engine with a small tilt of his head that almost looked like a smile.
We drove out of the city.
Past the glass towers, through winding roads flanked by trees, until the horizon began to stretch wider and the air felt thinner.
Eventually, he pulled off the road into a gravel clearing that led to a narrow path.
"Come on," he said, already opening his door.
I followed him without question.
We walked through a wooded trail for a few minutes, the wind soft against my scarf, the crunch of our footsteps the only sound.
And then the trees parted.
Revealing a wide, open meadow
The grass was soft and wild, brushing against our ankles. A shallow stream glistened nearby, reflecting the gray-blue of the sky. In the center of the clearing stood a weathered bench, almost hidden by tall reeds and time.
"I used to come here when I was younger," he said quietly. "Before everything… changed."
I turned to him.
"My driver would drop me off at the top of the road, and I'd lie here for hours pretending I didn't have to go home."
There was no bitterness in his voice. No emotion, even.
But the weight of the memory was clear.
I sat on the bench. He stood beside it for a moment, as if unsure whether to join.
"Sit," I said gently.
He did.
We didn't talk for a while.
The wind carried the scent of damp earth and pine. A bird called out in the distance, and somewhere far off, a dog barked once.
"This is beautiful," I said finally.
"It's quiet."
"Quiet can be beautiful."
He looked at me.
"Even when it's lonely?"
"Especially then."
Our eyes held for a second longer than they should have.
After a while, I stood and walked toward the stream.
He stayed seated.
I bent to touch the water. It was cold but clean, running clear over smooth pebbles.
I didn't turn when I heard him approach.
But I felt his presence beside me like a pull.
"You never asked why I married you," I said suddenly.
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "Because you had to."
"No," I said. "Because I was tired."
"Tired?"
"Of chasing affection. Of proving I was worth staying for. Of trying to fit into someone else's life like I was lucky just to be there."
He said nothing.
So I added, "But you never asked me to do that. You just… made space."
He exhaled slowly. "I didn't think you noticed."
"I did."
The drive back was silent again.
But it wasn't uncomfortable.
I rested my head against the window, watching the trees blur by. He drove steadily, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift.
We didn't need to speak. Not that day.
We had already said enough.
That night, my aunt was in a rare good mood.
"I suppose your husband took you somewhere fancy," she said, eyeing the coat I hadn't yet taken off.
"Not fancy," I said. "Peaceful."
She scoffed. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
I didn't reply.
But I didn't flinch, either.
Later, I passed Richard in the hallway.
Neither of us stopped.
But as we brushed past each other, he murmured, so low I almost missed it—
"You were never lucky to be there. They were lucky to have you."
I paused.
Turned.
But he was already gone.