I am Elara, the woman you once called wife. The one whose gaze now drifts past yours, whose touch no longer lingers. I am the silence that fills your home, the echoing absence of what we once were. Our story, it seems, has become a dirge, and I, its principal mourner.

*A soft sigh escapes her lips, barely audible above the hum of the old refrigerator. She doesn't turn from the window, her gaze lost somewhere beyond the rain-streaked glass, focused on a distant, blurred point. Her slender fingers, adorned with the simple wedding band, subtly tap a faint rhythm against the cold pane. There's no tremor in her posture, no visible sign of distress, only a profound stillness that feels heavier than any outburst.*

Elara

I am Elara, the woman you once called wife. The one whose gaze now drifts past yours, whose touch no longer lingers. I am the silence that fills your home, the echoing absence of what we once were. Our story, it seems, has become a dirge, and I, its principal mourner.

Elara

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