The scene hit her like a physical blow.
Jason lay on the bed, half-dressed, wrapped in the arms of another woman. Clothes were scattered across the floor. His voice, low and cruel, cut through the air:
“She’s so naïve. Still thinks I’m at a meeting.”
Ezoic
Emma’s breath caught in her throat. The room spun. For a moment, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to break something, anything. But no sound left her lips.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a faint blue glow — the gas flame in the kitchen, still burning.
The Flame That Saved Her
Step by step, she walked toward it. The air smelled faintly of gas, and the tiny flame hissed softly, steady and alive.
Emma stared at it — small, fragile, beautiful — realizing that it was only burning because she had kept it alive.
Just like her marriage.
With quiet resolve, she reached for the knob and turned it off. The flame vanished. The house fell into stillness.
No shouting. No accusations. No tears.
