Page 11 of Iron Roses

She used to sit behind me in the evenings, legs folded under her, fingers combing through my hair. Her thumbs would press into the back of my neck until the muscles stopped holding tension.

She would hum—not a melody, just a sound—until her hands drifted forward to rest over her belly.

I used to kiss the curve of her stomach when I came in from late meetings. She would pretend to be asleep. I never called her on it.

One night, I pressed my lips just below her navel and whispered, “He’ll have your eyes.”

Her hand slid into my hair.

“Or your jaw,” she said. “He’ll be stubborn.”

She laughed under her breath and ran her thumb along the scar near my temple.

The night she died, the house was quiet.

We were in bed. I woke up first. Her hand was still resting on my chest.

The door broke open before I could reach the pistol.

Three men entered. They didn’t speak. The first drove a blade into her side before she sat up. The second held me back.

She didn’t scream.

The third stabbed her again—under the ribs, then higher.

Blood spilled across the sheets.

Her eyes never left mine.

By the time I reached the first man, the knife was still buried in her chest.

I crushed his throat with my hands.

The second drew a gun. I disarmed him with my elbow and drove the barrel into his mouth.

Pulled the trigger. The third ran. I followed.

I hunted him through the vineyards, into the trees. I didn’t stop until his blood soaked the roots.

When I returned, the sheets were cold. Her hand had fallen from the bed. Her ring still caught the moonlight.

I sat beside her until the candle burned to the wick.

At sunrise, I spoke my last word.

Since then, I’ve said nothing.

Not until the day I find her again.

The wax from the candle pools at the edge of the altar, catching the faint trace of blood beneath it.

I reach into the folds of the cloth and draw the blade.

It still holds her initials carved into the hilt. She etched them herself. The knife was never sharpened again.

I pull a strip of linen from the pocket sewn beneath the altar slab. Wrap the blade. Tight. Folded three times. Then place it back into the center of the marble.

Two fingers press against the old bloodstain.

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