MARRIED TO HIS MEMORY: Loving The Ghost Of His Past

Lucien Wensworth was smiling.

It was a rare thing.... soft, unguarded, almost boyish. The kind of smile that never appeared in boardrooms or glossy magazine spreads. The kind no one believed he was still capable of.

Morning light poured through tall windows, bathing the long wooden dining table in gold. It felt warm here. Peaceful. The world was quiet in a way it never allowed itself to be. He sat across from her, fingers intertwined with hers.

Her hands were warm. Familiar. Real.

Lucien tightened his grip slightly, grounding himself in the sensation. He had learned.... somewhere between grief and madness.... that if he focused hard enough on the details, the moment would last longer. “Slow down,” he murmured with a laugh, squeezing her fingers when she tried to pull away. “You always rush.” She laughed too. The sound wrapped itself around his chest and settled there, easing a tightness he hadn’t even realized he was carrying. “I don’t want to be late,” she said, teasing, light. “Late for what?” he asked. She hesitated, the smallest pause. Then she smiled again. He couldn’t see her face clearly. Not really. There was always something about it that stayed just beyond focus, like a photograph taken while moving. He could make out the curve of her mouth when she smiled, the softness of her cheeks.... but her eyes blurred, her features refusing to sharpen.

It didn’t matter. He knew her.

He knew the way her thumb brushed over his knuckle when she was nervous. The faint tremor in her hands when she was excited. The way her laughter softened when she was tired. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

Everything stilled.

Her breath mingled with his. The world narrowed to warmth and quiet and the steady rhythm of being alive together.

“This feels nice,” he said softly. “It always does,” she replied.

For a moment, Lucien allowed himself to believe that this was real. That this was not a fragile thing balanced on the edge of waking. That the past had not stolen everything worth holding onto. Then her hands began to slip from his. He frowned.

“Emily?"

Her fingers loosened, warmth fading as though she were dissolving into air. The light around them dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. “No,” he said sharply, tightening his grip. “Wait.” She stepped back. Her smile lingered.... sad now. Apologetic. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered. Panic surged violently through him. “Emily, don’t....”

She vanished.

Lucien jolted awake with a gasp, his heart slamming violently against his ribs. His hands closed around nothing.

“Emily!” he shouted, bolting upright. The penthouse bedroom was dark and silent, the kind of silence that pressed against his ears until it hurt. The city glowed coldly through the floor-to-ceiling windows, distant and indifferent. The dream evaporated, leaving behind only the ache. His breathing came fast and uneven as he swung his legs over the bed. “Emily?” His voice cracked. He stood quickly, bare feet slapping against marble as he crossed the room.

Bathroom. Empty. Sitting room. Still empty. Kitchen.... spotless, untouched, as though no one else had ever lived there.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You were just here.” He moved faster now, panic clawing up his throat as he opened doors, scanned corners, checked places he already knew would be empty. “Emily… Emily, stop this,” he said hoarsely. “It’s not funny.” Nothing answered him.

The truth crept in slowly, cruel and familiar. She died three years ago.

Lucien’s steps faltered. His knees gave out beneath him, and he sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his thighs, head dropping into his hands. “She promised,” he whispered. “You promised.” The silence pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. His chest ached... not sharply, but constantly, like a wound that had never been allowed to heal. His shoulders trembled as his breathing grew erratic.

Everyone buried my wife. No one buried my guilt.

His phone rang. The sound cut through the quiet sharply, making him flinch. Lucien lifted his head slowly, staring at the device on the bedside table as though it might accuse him of something. The screen lit up the darkness. Mother Calling. He swallowed hard before answering. “Yes?” His voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Lucien,” his mother said gently.... too gently. “Are you awake?” He glanced around the room again, half-expecting her to appear now that someone else was speaking. She didn’t. “I am,” he replied. There was a pause. “I just wanted to check,” his mother continued carefully. “Are you still coming this weekend?” The word left his mouth before he could think. “Yes.” Relief.... hers, not his.... filtered through the line. “That’s good,” she said. “We’ll be expecting you.” The call ended, leaving the room quiet once more. Lucien remained seated, staring at the empty space beside him. “I’m coming,” he murmured to no one at all.

An hour later, Lucien Wensworth locked the door to his penthouse behind him. He didn’t look back as the elevator descended, carrying him away from the place where she always disappeared. Away from memories that refused to stay buried. Toward his mother’s estate. Toward the beginning of something he didn’t yet understand. Toward a woman who would change everything... Even if she was not the one he was calling for.

The Wensworth estate rose from the countryside like a memory carved in stone.... wide, white, and immaculately preserved. It stood exactly as it always had, untouched by time, untouched by grief.

Lucien hated that.

Some places aged with you. Others remained frozen, forcing you to confront everything you had become.

The wrought-iron gates parted slowly as the car rolled in, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Lucien stared straight ahead, his reflection faint in the tinted window. He looked composed. Controlled. No one would guess his chest felt too tight to breathe.

The car barely rolled to a stop before Lucien opened the door. “Sir....” the driver began. Lucien was already stepping out. The air smelled like cut grass and old money. The kind of scent that never changed, no matter how many years passed. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he moved toward the front doors, his strides long, restless, as if something insid