The Baptism

The kitchen floor was cold against Elena's bare feet as she watched him pack. Marcus moved with that maddening efficiency she'd once admired—now it felt like erasure. His suitcase yawned open on the counter, swallowing six years of their life together.

'I'm sorry,' he said, not turning around. 'I just can't do this anymore.'

Their cat, Luna, wound through Elena's legs, purring as if the world weren't ending. Elena reached down, her fingers tangling in the cat's soft fur, seeking anchor in the warmth.

'Marcus.' Her voice cracked. 'Please.'

He paused, his hand hovering over his iPhone on the counter. The screen lit up with another notification—another work email, another commitment to something that wasn't them. His hair fell over his eyes, and she remembered how she used to push it back, how he used to let her.

'I have to go,' he said.

The front door clicked shut. Elena stood there, heart hammering, Luna still pressed against her ankles. She walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and let the water run over her hands. She kept running it, watching it swirl down the drain, thinking about baptism—how people said water could wash things clean, make you new again.

Her iPhone buzzed on the counter. A text from Marcus: 'I left the key.' Not 'I love you.' Not 'I'll call.' Just logistics.

Elena turned off the water. The apartment was suddenly, terrifyingly quiet. Luna meowed once, then padded toward the bedroom where Marcus's scent still lingered on the pillows. Elena followed, knowing she should wash the sheets, burn the sage, do whatever people did to excise ghosts. Instead, she lay down on his side of the bed and closed her eyes, listening to the pipes settle in the walls, water dripping somewhere in the distance, counting the heartbeats until she would have to learn how to be alone again.