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Whispers In Blood
The old Victorian house on Maple Street had never felt so quiet.
Elena Voss stood at the kitchen window, staring at the rain streaking down the glass like slow tears. It was just past ten at night, the kind of late-spring storm that made the whole neighborhood smell of wet earth and distant thunder. She wore an oversized cream sweater that had once belonged to her husband—too big on her now, the sleeves swallowing her hands—and a pair of soft black leggings. Her dark hair, still damp from the shower, hung loose over one shoulder. At forty-two she still turned heads, but she hadn’t noticed in years. Not since the funeral.
The front door clicked open behind her.
“Mom? I’m home.”
Marko’s voice—deeper than she remembered—cut through the silence like a match striking. She turned, forcing a smile that felt too tight.
“You’re soaked,” she said, already moving toward the hallway. “I left a towel on the banister.”
He stepped inside, shaking rain from his dark curls. Twenty-one now, and the boy she’d raised had been replaced by someone broader, taller, the kind of man who filled a doorway without trying. His wet T-shirt clung to his chest, outlining the new definition in his shoulders and arms from whatever gym routine he’d picked up at college. Elena’s gaze flicked there for half a second too long before she looked away.
“Thanks,” he muttered, kicking off his sneakers. Water pooled on the hardwood. “Flight was delayed. Then the Uber driver got lost. Classic.”
She handed him the towel. Their fingers brushed. Nothing. Just skin. Yet something in her stomach tightened—an old, familiar ache she hadn’t felt in so long she almost didn’t recognize it.
“I made lasagna,” she said, turning back to the stove before he could see her face. “It’s probably cold by now, but I can warm it up.”
“Mom, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” Her voice was softer than she meant. “You’ve been gone four months. Let me do something.”
Marko draped the towel around his neck and leaned against the doorframe, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her back as she opened the oven. The sweater rode up a little when she bent down; she didn’t notice. He did.