The house was alive with golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched. It poured through the tall windows, casting long, warm shadows over the wooden floors. I could hear Jill in the kitchen, humming—something old, something she always hummed when she was happy.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her move. She was chopping vegetables, her sleeves rolled up, barefoot as usual. The smell of garlic and rosemary filled the air.
“You know,” I said, pushing off the doorframe and walking over to her, “there’s a rumor going around that my wife makes the best pasta in the world.”
She smirked, not looking up. “Oh yeah? Who’s spreading these wild allegations?”
“Some very credible sources,” I said, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. “A very charming and, might I add, extremely handsome husband. He also claims his wife is the love of his life.”
She laughed, leaning back against me for a moment. “Well, I can’t argue with a handsome, credible source, now can I?”
“Nope,” I said, pressing a kiss to the side of her head before stepping back.
She turned to face me then, looking at me in that way she always did—like I was something she had once dreamed up, and somehow, against all odds, had come to life.
“Set the table,” she said, nudging me with her hip.
I saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
Nights like these were my favorite—just the two of us, good food, laughter bouncing off the walls, the quiet understanding that we had built something beautiful together.
As I set the plates down, I glanced toward the window. Outside, the garden stretched lazily, bathed in the last light of the day. The roses she had planted last spring were finally blooming.
“Did you see the roses?” I asked as she brought the pasta over.
Her face lit up. “Yes! They look incredible. I was thinking we should plant some tulips too next spring.
“Perfect,” I said, pulling out a chair for her.
She sat, twirling her fork in the pasta, looking around the room as if trying to soak it all in. “We have a good life, don’t we?” she asked softly.
I reached for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “The best.”
Jill
Mornings were my favorite. The house felt different in those early hours, like it belonged only to us.
I sat on the porch, coffee cup warm between my hands, watching Jake water the garden. He always did it so carefully, as if each plant mattered more than it should.
“You talk to them when I’m not around, don’t you?” I teased.
He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jill.”
A pause. Then, in a quieter voice:
“Only the ones that look lonely.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Of course you do.”
He finished watering and came to sit beside me. The air smelled like damp earth, fresh and clean.
“You know what I was thinking about last night?” he asked.
I took a sip of my coffee, tilting my head toward him. “Tell me.”
“That first apartment we had. The one with the leaky sink and the terrible wallpaper.”
I groaned. “Oh God, the wallpaper. It looked like something out of a horror movie.”
“But we loved it,” he said, smiling. “Remember how we used to sit on the floor because we didn’t have a couch yet?”
“And you kept insisting we didn’t need one because the floor ‘built character.’”
“Didn’t it?”
“Sure, if back pain counts as character.”
We laughed, the sound of it light and familiar.
He ran a hand through his hair, his expression turning thoughtful. “You ever wonder how different things would’ve been if we never met?”
I frowned. “What kind of question is that?”
“A philosophical one.” He leaned back, stretching his legs. “Think about it. If I had missed the train that day, do you think we still would’ve found each other?”
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like one of those people who believe in destiny.”
He smirked. “Maybe I do.”
I tapped my fingers against my cup, pretending to think. “I don’t believe in destiny. But I do believe in us. And I believe we would have ended up together somehow, because the universe isn’t stupid enough to keep me from the one person who can put up with my nonsense.”
He grinned. “And vice versa.”
“Exactly.”
I turned to look at him, really look at him. The lines near his eyes, the way his lips curved ever so slightly when he was thinking, the way his fingers drummed absently against his knee.
“Do you think we’ll always be like this?” I asked.
His smile softened. “Like what?”
“Happy.”
He reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “I think happiness is a choice, Jill. And I choose you. Every day. Even when it’s hard. Even when the wallpaper is awful.”
I squeezed his hand back, “Me too.”
*****
“Jill!”
The voice came like a thunderclap, sudden and jarring. The warmth of Jake’s hand in hers vanished, the porch beneath her feet dissolving.
The world around her tilted, cracked, and crumbled—like a mirror shattering in slow motion.
She blinked, disoriented.
She wasn’t sitting on the porch.
She wasn’t drinking coffee.
She wasn’t laughing with Jake.
She was on the floor, hunched over something small and wooden.
A shadow loomed over her, a presence pulling her sharply back into the present.
“Jill!”
Her grandmother stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face lined with tired exasperation.
“I leave you alone for fifteen minutes, and you start playing with that old dollhouse of yours?” You’re not a child anymore, Jill. Grow up.”
Jill’s hands trembled as she carefully placed the two figures back inside the tiny house. Jake, frozen in time, smiling at her with love that had never truly existed.
Her grandmother sighed again, softer this time. “Come on. Dinner’s ready.”
Jill nodded, pushing herself up off the floor. She turned back to the dollhouse one last time, lingering on the perfect world she had created—the life she had dreamt into being.
She smiled faintly.
Then she switched off the light and closed the door of her childhood bedroom behind her.
