The red numbers on the alarm clock glowed 3:12 a.m.

I sat up, listening. Our house in Maplewood had its own language of creaks and sighs, but it felt different and eerily silent that night.

“Dave?” I whispered into the darkness.

No response came.

I padded downstairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. The kitchen stood empty, moonlight streaming through the window above the sink.

There was no glass of water on the counter and no sign he’d been here at all.

The front door’s hinges groaned suddenly and my heart jumped. Dave stepped inside, closing it softly behind him.

“God, you scared me,” I said, wrapping my robe tighter. “Where were you?”
He froze for a moment, then shrugged.

“Just taking the trash out.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep… figured I’d get it done.” His voice carried that casual tone but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

I stared at him in the dim hallway light.

In 22 years of marriage, Dave had never voluntarily taken out the trash, let alone in the middle of the night.

“Since when do you take the trash out at all?”

He gave me a quick smile and disappeared down the hall.