The dining table was longer than necessary.
Like it was built for grand banquets and diplomatic affairs, it stretched unnecessarily wide between Callum and Seraphine, leaving too much space for silence to breed discomfort.
As the plates were laid out by the maids—sweet-braised short ribs, golden yam rice, and buttered greens—Seraphine felt the chill of the distance. Not just the physical kind.
Without lifting her head, she spoke, clear and measured.
"Join us for dinner," she said to the maids. "Now."
The staff stilled especially Lara, the youngest maid who accidentally burned her shoulder.
Callum looked up then, brows raised slightly—not in protest, but curiosity. His eyes met hers, searching for a motive. He found none. Only calm certainty.
He turned to Lara and gestured to the chair beside him.
"You heard her. Sit."
She hesitated, but the command stood. When Lara sits, the other maids follow.
Not joyous but not bland, Sera said, "This might be late but let's enjoy our house bridal dinner."
Two of the younger maids and the older head cook awkwardly took seats, heads bowed, hands trembling slightly in their laps. Plates were passed down again. Forks were picked up. Small murmurs of gratitude escaped their lips.
Even with her gentle smile and his respectful voice, the absence of voice terrified them.
The silence broke, not with words—but with the sound of shared eating, of soft conversation among the maids about the seasoning, the good rice, the harvest of herbs from the garden that morning. Seraphine didn't speak much. She only observed. And Callum… he quietly obliged the scene, occasionally nodding to a comment, or passing down a bowl when Sera asked.
Then the scent hit him.
Familiar. Unmistakable.
His fork paused mid-air.
Sweet-braised short ribs—Dahlia's favorite. She used to beg the kitchen for it once a year, on her mother's birthday. Said it brought her comfort. Said it softened the ache.
On her mother's 48th birthday, he and Dahlia cooked it together.
Until it became one of their favorite dishes. One of the dishes they planned to serve at their wedding.
Callum slowly lowered the fork. His eyes became cloudy.
He hadn't eaten this dish since the last time Dahlia made it herself, humming as she worked, the whole kitchen drenched in the scent of caramelized shallots and home.
He swallowed—but not the food.
Across the table, Seraphine caught the flicker of something in his expression. She didn't speak.
She only reached for the water jug and poured him a glass. Her motion was clean, unfazed.
"It's fine," he said quietly, not meeting her eyes.
She didn't ask if it truly was.
---
After dinner, Callum rose first but didn't immediately leave.
He took a bath, trying to wash the pain, but his tears bathed him as well.
Then, wanting to go for a stroll, he went out.
But was stopped, somehow, mesmerized.
He stood by the archway, lingering for a few seconds as Seraphine helped gather the dishes. They were laughing as if they had known each other for a long time.
"Go," she said gently. "Rest early."
They obeyed, leaving her alone in the kitchen.
She rolled her sleeves and began to wash the plates, her movements brisk and precise. There was no trace of hesitation in her touch—only quiet control.
Not delicate like Dahlia, who would sing softly while scrubbing. Who would smile and ask him to join her.
Seraphine washed as if she'd been rigorously trained to clean rather than merely taught its basics. Every dish she handled returned spotless and soundless. The water splashed softly as she moved methodically, her focus absolute and unyielding.
Callum, hidden in the shadows of the hall, watched her with quiet intensity as if he had found a new habit. He hadn't planned to stop downstairs, yet something—a pull he couldn't quite name—had rooted him there, compelled him to stand silently and observe.
In that moment, all remnants of the past faded away—no traces of Dahlia's memories haunted his vision—only the steady, unadorned reality of Sera. Her focus was absolute, her movements a silent testament to a fierce inner resolve.
Her eyes never leave the dishes; she was lost entirely in the act of cleansing, of restoring a familiar order in a world that had grown too chaotic.
And that struck him deeply.
Here, in the muted interplay of light and shadow, he discovered something profound: a quiet, solemn beauty in her unguarded presence. It was as if, within the gentle rhythm of her task, Sera had become the sole memory worth holding—a beacon of tenderness and strength that eclipsed all else.
---
Sera stepped into the room quietly and found Callum asleep with the soft lamplight outlining his weary form. Without disturbing his rest, she settled herself on the bed beside him. The gentle rhythm of his breathing filled the space between them until, almost imperceptibly, he stirred. Still with his back turned to her, his voice broke the silence in a low, tremulous murmur.
"I miss Dahlia," he said, his tone raw with longing and regret. "Every day, it hurts more—being here in this marriage, wearing these vows like a burden I never chose." The confession tumbled out in fragments of a man caught between memories and the weight of his present.
Sera lay there, her back against his, absorbing each word. She did not speak; she simply listened, allowing his sorrowful admission to fill the quiet night. In her silence, there was an understanding—an unspoken compassion that bridged the gaps between their separate truths. Her quiet presence, the soft rise and fall of her breath, served as a silent embrace for the pain he revealed.
In that intimate and fragile moment, they existed together in the stillness—a space where no contrived comfort was needed, only the raw, honest echoes of a heart laid bare in the dark.
Then, when he finished speaking about his agony, Sera almost said, "Sorry."
However, she cannot find the strength.
They let their silence lullaby them to sleep.