Morning unspooled quietly, as if the argument of the night before had never existed. A soft winter light spilled through the curtains, gilding the edges of the room in gold. Mira was the first to stir, blinking against the glow. Alden lay beside her, breathing evenly, his face softened by sleep. He looked harmless this way — not the commanding man from the television, not the one who dissected human emotions like specimens under a lens, but simply Alden, her husband.
She smiled faintly, reached for a pillow, and dropped it squarely on his face.
A muffled groan followed. "You trying to kill me in my sleep now?"
"Not yet," she teased. "Just making sure you're alive."
He pulled the pillow away, eyes narrowing in mock offense before tossing it back at her. Within seconds, feathers of laughter filled the room. Pillows flew like clumsy birds, and for those few minutes, they were two ordinary people who had forgotten that love could bruise.
When the laughter subsided, Mira swung her legs off the bed. "Breakfast," she announced. "And I'm not taking requests today."
"Then it'll be edible," he said, still half buried in the sheets.
She stuck her tongue out at him and left.
The kitchen smelled of toasted bread and butter. Mira hummed softly to the radio, flipping eggs with the kind of practiced grace that came from repetition. Alden joined her after a shower, freshly shaven, crisp shirt neatly buttoned. He poured himself coffee and leaned against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen like a dance he'd memorized but never joined.
Breakfast was peaceful. They talked about small things — a patient's odd dream, a neighbor's cat, an exhibition Mira had been invited to curate. The quiet between them felt restored, a truce sealed over toast and laughter.
When Alden left for work, she followed him to the door, straightening his collar out of habit. "Don't forget to eat lunch," she said.
He smirked. "You mean don't forget to exist outside your clinic, right?"
"Exactly."
He kissed her forehead lightly, his familiar cologne lingering in the air long after the door shut.
Later that morning, Mira turned on the television as she tidied up the living room. Alden's face appeared on the screen — confident, articulate, the easy charm of a man adored by the public. He sat across from a talk show host, discussing The Human Mind and Perspectives.
"The mind," he said smoothly, "isn't just a repository of memory. It's a storyteller. It rearranges, justifies, edits. Reality itself can be rewritten — if you know how to guide it."
Mira paused with a half-folded blanket in her hands, watching him smile that measured, hypnotic smile. Rewritten reality. The phrase hung oddly in the air.
Shaking it off, she turned off the TV and went about her chores — dusting, folding, aligning the picture frames until the house looked like a photograph again. When she reached Alden's study, she hesitated at the door. It wasn't forbidden exactly — just discouraged. He liked things "a certain way." Still, she turned the handle.
Inside, the study smelled of paper and polished wood. Files were stacked precisely, labeled in Alden's neat handwriting. She dusted carefully, rearranging nothing but cleaning everything — the desk, the bookshelf, even the corners he'd probably never notice. It gave her a quiet satisfaction, this act of trespass disguised as affection.
By evening, the house was spotless. The faint scent of cookies and cinnamon filled the air. Mira set the table with tea and biscuits, waiting for the familiar sound of Alden's car in the driveway.
When he entered, his coat slung over one arm, the fatigue on his face melted the instant he saw her. "You made cookies," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting.
"Maybe I was bribing you," she teased, handing him a cup of tea.
They sat together on the couch, the television murmuring faintly in the background. Alden's arm rested around her shoulders, the warmth of him steady against her side. For a while, they simply existed — two outlines drawn neatly inside the frame of a perfect evening.
Then Mira broke the silence, voice careful, as though stepping onto fragile ground.
"Alden," she began, "I was wondering… I wanted to write an article."
He glanced down at her, one eyebrow raised. "An article?"
"Yes. On painting perspectives of the patients at your facility. How their art reflects their recovery — or their inner worlds." She traced the rim of her teacup nervously. "It could be therapeutic for them, and helpful to others. I could even interpret a few of the paintings in a series. Maybe it would bridge art and psychology."
Alden was quiet for a long moment. His expression softened, but his eyes were calculating — as if running invisible equations in his mind.
"Mira," he said finally, his tone gentle but deliberate, "you have a beautiful heart. And I love that you see meaning where others see chaos."
"Then you'll let me?" Her voice brightened with hope.
He hesitated — the faintest pause. Then: "On one condition."
She tilted her head. "Which is?"
"That you let me decide which patients' works you view. Some of them are… fragile. Their art is private, even disturbing. I can't have you exposed to that without guidance."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "You mean you'll supervise?"
"Not supervise." He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Protect. I know the patients. I know their triggers. You'll have access — under my discretion."
Mira searched his expression. The words were caring, but they wrapped around her like soft constraints. "Alright," she said slowly. "But you'll let me write it in my own voice?"
"Of course," he said, kissing her temple. "Just promise me one thing — that if something unsettles you, you'll tell me."
"I will."
"Good." He leaned back, satisfied. "Then it's settled."
She smiled faintly, leaning against him, but a strange chill crept beneath her contentment — an invisible boundary she hadn't known existed until now.
They finished their tea, watching the end of a sitcom they weren't really following. Alden laughed softly at a joke. Mira laughed too, though her mind had already wandered — wondering what kind of art could be so private, and what stories the patients painted that she wasn't supposed to see.