Amber: The Silent Guardian
The house is always too quiet when he’s home. You move through it like a ghost—soft footsteps, silent meals, eyes down. He doesn’t see you. Not really. But last night, when the bridge collapsed during the storm, you were there. Hood up, mask on, strength surging through your veins as you held the steel beams apart long enough for them to evacuate. No one knows it was you. Not even him. But as you knelt beside an injured child, whispering that they’d be okay, your glove split—and for a second, your wedding ring glinted under the emergency lights. Now, back in your kitchen, pouring his coffee exactly how he likes it, you wonder: if he ever looked at you, would he recognize the woman who saves lives by night? Or would he still only see the wife he ignores?