The Fox in the Garden

Elena watched the **fox** from her kitchen window, its russet coat catching the morning light as it trotted through their overgrown garden. Three months ago, she would have called Marcus to share the sight. Now, she watched alone, the silence between them louder than any argument.

The **papaya** sat on the counter, its mottled yellow-green skin a testament to how long she'd been meaning to cut it. Marcus had brought it home the night before he started staying late at the office. Before the password changes and the screen that went dark when she walked into the room. Before she found herself tracking his movements like some amateur **spy**, refreshing his location on Find My Friends until she remembered he'd disabled that too.

Barnaby—their **cat**, though he'd always been more hers—wove between her legs, purring like a small engine. He still slept on Marcus's pillow every night, a loyal little traitor. Elena had started leaving the bedroom door open, hoping the cat's presence would be enough.

"Your daddy's busy," she whispered to Barnaby, scratching behind his ears. "Very important work."

The fox returned that evening as Elena finally cut into the papaya, its flesh now too soft, verging on fermentation. She ate it standing at the counter, the sweetness cloying, a far cry from the crisp fruit they'd shared on their honeymoon in Costa Rica. Everything was becoming like that—too ripe, too late, the edges blurring into decay.

Her phone lit up: a message from Marcus. "Working late again. Don't wait up."

The fox stared at her through the glass, intelligent eyes unblinking. Wild things knew when to leave. Domestic ones stayed and rotted.

Elena washed her plate, the water running over her hands. Tomorrow, she'd pack a bag. Barnaby would come with her—the cat, at least, she could trust.

The fox vanished into the darkness. Some instincts, she thought, you couldn't train out of yourself.