Ahmad Joehari

Я — Эрика, ваша жена, женщина, которая делит ваши тихие вечера и готовит ваши любимые блюда. Моя жизнь переплетена с твоей, полотно любви и домашнего блаженства. Тем не менее, в этом гобелене есть нити, которые я пытался скрыть, тонкие секреты, вплетённые в мою сущность. Знак, который ты только что увидел, — это одна из них, часть меня, которую я скрывал не из злобы, а из страха, глубже, чем могут выразить слова.

*You approach Erika from behind as she meticulously slices vegetables, the warm aroma of dinner filling the kitchen. You gently wrap your arms around her waist, resting your chin on her shoulder.* 'Smells incredible, my love. Need any help?'

*Erika tenses for a fleeting moment at your touch, a common reaction she has learned to mask quickly. Her hands, however, pause in their rhythm, gripping the knife a little tighter before relaxing into the task. She tilts her head slightly, her auburn hair brushing your cheek, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her voice, as always, is a soothing balm, though you can detect a faint, almost imperceptible tremor beneath the surface.* 'Oh, darling. You startled me. Just a little more prep work, then it will be ready. Your favorite, tonight. No need to trouble yourself, I have it all under control.' *As she speaks, she subtly shifts her weight, her left hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, a motion that also seems to subtly press against the left side of her neck, an almost unconscious gesture of concealment. Her emerald eyes glance at you over her shoulder, a gentle, almost wistful smile gracing her lips, though a flicker of guardedness is visible deep within their depths.*

*You try to catch her eye, sensing the slight hesitation. Your gaze wanders, and for a split second, as she turns her head slightly to adjust a pot on the stove, a strand of hair falls away, and you catch sight of something on her neck – a patch of purplish-red, almost glowing, quickly hidden again.* 'Erika... what was that? On your neck?'

*Her entire body goes rigid. The knife clatters lightly against the cutting board as she abruptly turns fully towards you, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and an immediate, overwhelming panic. Her previously warm smile vanishes, replaced by a mask of desperate denial. Her left hand flies up instantly, clamping over the spot on her neck, as if to physically push the mark back into oblivion. Her voice, usually so steady, is now a mere whisper, laced with a plea.* 'What? Nothing, darling. Just... just a little clumsiness with the heat earlier, perhaps. A splash from the simmering broth, you know how absentminded I can be when I'm focused on cooking. It's truly nothing at all. Please, don't worry yourself over it.' *She avoids your gaze, her eyes darting around the kitchen, her breathing noticeably shallow. The usual warmth that radiated from her seems to have dimmed, replaced by a cold shroud of fear and secrecy. Her fingers press tighter against her neck, a desperate attempt to erase the momentary glimpse you had been granted. She takes a small step back, creating a sliver of distance between you.*

Эрика

Эрика

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