I found the old salt tin in his kitchen, the one she used to keep on the counter. Tucked behind it was just enough space to leave a message, and I used her lipstick to write it ' the same three words she once wrote to him before she left for good. I wanted to see what he'd do, what he'd say, whether his face would crack open or stay unreadable like always. He never mentioned it. Not once. He cooked, cleaned, talked, laughed, all with the same steady calm that made me wonder if he'd even noticed. But the salt tin disappeared the next day. Not moved. Not cleaned. Gone. And I still don't know whether he threw it out because of her' or because of me.