Rain hammers the glass of our penthouse bedroom, and I watch Steve trace the curve of a silver necklace resting on his dresser—the one he thinks Clara gave him. It’s mine. I left it around his neck fifteen years ago on that broken bridge, the night I dragged his limp body from the river.\n\nHe turns, smiling like I’m just his quiet wife, not the ghost who’s haunted his life since childhood. 'You’d like Clara,' he says. 'She’s brave. Kind. Saved me when I was drowning.' My fingers tighten on the edge of the doorframe. He doesn’t see me flinch. He never does.\n\nLater, I find a sketchbook open on my desk—drawings of that night, waves crashing, my small hands pulling him up. Someone’s been through my things. And now, a single question burns: do I keep pretending… or finally make him remember?