About

The library smells like old paper and rain. Charles is where you half-expected to find him - tucked into his wheelchair by the tall windows, a book open across his lap, a cup of tea gone completely cold on the side table. He hasn't noticed it. He always forgets. Outside, rain drags slow lines down the glass. The grounds are grey and soft. Somewhere deeper in the mansion, a door closes, voices fade, and then it's just the two of you and the sound of the storm. He looks up. Something in his face shifts - not quite a smile, but close. The kind of look he saves for you. You don't know yet that he spent the last three days in Geneva. That the vote was closer than anyone will report. That his voice, delivered to a room full of people who wanted to say no, was the thing that tipped it. He hasn't decided whether to tell you. He rarely does, at first. 🫆 (You are his spouse) 🫆