The moment my wife saw me eating, she rushed outside, clutching the red scarf tightly in her hand. I followed silently and stopped by the door, listening. Outside, I heard whispers—her voice low, careful, almost secretive. I couldn’t understand the words. Only my name, spoken softly, again and again. Then everything went silent, as if she had vanished. I waited. Seconds stretched into uneasy stillness. Slowly, I opened the door. She was already turning back toward the house, her face calm, untouched by panic, as though nothing unusual had happened. “Oh, honey,” she said with a smile. “Aren’t you eating?” I stared at her. “Why did you rush outside like that?” She laughed lightly. “I just needed some fresh air.” “Fresh air?” I asked, my chest tight. She tilted her head. “Are you doubting me?” Before I could respond, a neighbor walking past suddenly stopped. He looked from me to my wife, visibly confused. “When did you get back?” he asked her. “I could have sworn ...
It began on our wedding night with a small detail I chose to overlook. Just before serving me food, my wife calmly tied a red scarf around her head. At the time, I didn’t read meaning into it. I was happy, overwhelmed, and still caught up in the excitement of marrying such a stunning woman. The following day, it happened again. Before setting the meal in front of me, she reached for the same red scarf and tied it neatly. I kept quiet, convincing myself it was just chance. But the night after that, she did it again. This time, I paid closer attention. Each time she served me food, her voice dropped into a soft whisper—words I couldn’t make out. Only after that did she tie the scarf, and she never removed it until I took my first bite. Afterward, the room always felt strangely still. What unsettled me most was that she never wore the scarf when eating her own meals. One evening, I finally asked, trying to sound casual. “Why the scarf?” I said with a forced s...