Creak
As the man stood there, staring at his broken body, he heard the faint creak of the morgue door. Slowly, it opened, and he turned his gaze to see a woman step inside. His heart—if it still existed—might have skipped a beat, for he knew this woman.
It was his wife.
She wore a plain yellow frock, simple but graceful. The kind of frock that spoke of quiet elegance rather than attention. It wasn't the kind of outfit he would expect someone to wear to a morgue, yet she was here, walking towards him. His thoughts were a whirlwind, his mind struggling to make sense of her presence.
They had been married, yes, but it had been one of those forced unions. A mistake. A night they couldn't undo, and since then, she had been a stranger. They'd never truly shared a life together, never built anything. She had always been distant, lost in her own world, and he, in his own.
He never expected her to come to his funeral. And even if she did, it would be out of obligation, just for the sake of formality. But now, here she was, standing before his body. His heart twisted.
The woman's eyes met his—though he knew she couldn't see him. She was looking at the body that lay cold, covered in a shroud of white. Her hands shook slightly as she reached out and lifted the cloth from his face.
Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes met the mangled remains of what used to be him. The explosion had left his face unrecognizable. Burnt, bruised, disfigured. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes to the cruel sight, but he couldn't. He could only watch as she stared at him, her tears falling freely, staining the air with sorrow.
The man winced as her trembling fingers brushed against the charred skin of his cheek, even though he knew she could no longer feel the warmth of his face. He had been reduced to something grotesque, something no one should have to see. And yet, there she was, touching him as if she still recognized him.
Her eyes studied him—taking in the broken, burnt form that had once been full of life—and yet, the care in her touch, the tenderness in her gaze, spoke of a love he hadn't realized she still had.
It was too much to bear. He wanted to speak, to reach out, but there was nothing. He was a soul, trapped in the stillness of death, watching this silent, painful goodbye.
As tears continued to fall from her eyes, her lips trembled, and the words escaped in a voice thick with grief. "Executive, sir." Her voice broke with every syllable, and he could feel the weight of her sorrow in the trembling of her tone.
Hearing her call him that, the man's soul froze. The familiar words hit him like a wave, drowning him in a sea of memories. He remembered it well—how she would always call him that. It had been a nickname, a distant formality, a name spoken with politeness, with no affection behind it. Their encounters had been brief, fleeting. Just moments that could be counted on a hand, moments lost in the noise of their disconnected lives.
But every time they did meet, she had called him "Executive, sir." It was almost as though it was the only way she knew how to address him, the only way she knew how to be around him—distant, formal, detached. He had never questioned it. He had never expected more. But now, in the haunting silence of the morgue, it echoed in his ears.
And then, her voice shook again as she spoke, her words barely more than a whisper.
"We... we have twins. Sorry. So sorry. I was in the hospital... when you needed me the most."
His heart—if it could still feel—would have shattered. The words hit him harder than any explosion, any wound. Twins. He had a family he never knew.
Hearing her words, the man's soul finally understood. He had forgotten—forgotten that his wife was pregnant. She had been so busy, her life consumed by the demands of work, that she never had time to be home. And he, too, was always consumed by his own work, too busy to reach out to her, to make time for her. He had thought that maybe she hated him, that she resented him for their lack of connection. That thought had kept him distant, never daring to approach her.
A helpless smile, more bitter than any tear, flickered on his face. It hurt more than crying, realizing all the missed moments, the things left unsaid. So he had become a father, huh? He would never get to know his children.
The woman suddenly sank to her knees, her hands still resting on his disfigured body. Her sobs were silent at first, her chest rising and falling with grief. "I am so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible. "You must be in so much pain. Why wasn't I the one who died? Why was it you?"
The man's spirit surged forward, an invisible force that could not comprehend the words she spoke. Why would she say such things? They had hardly known each other, had never truly been close. Yet here she was, grieving for him, as if he were everything to her. Her words echoed in his mind, but he still could not understand them.
Then, he looked into her eyes. They were vacant, hollowed by the grief, but there was something else—a profound love, deeper than he had ever imagined. Despite the ugliness of the body before her, despite the man she had never truly known, she loved him. The realization hit him like a wave.
She wiped her tears, took a deep breath, and slowly, with determination, she stood up. She leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his forehead—what could even be called a kiss on the cold, broken skin that remained. The man felt a wave of discomfort, almost disgust, as she kissed him, feeling the distance between them—he was no longer the man she had married.
But her words followed, soft and steady, as she whispered, "Don't worry. I'm here, husband. I will take care of everything. You don't need to worry."