The Signal

The power had been out for three hours, and Sarah's spinach soufflé was sinking into a cold, congealed disaster. She picked at it with her fork, the green flecks looking like something dredged from a swamp. Richard sat across from her, his phone's flashlight creating dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion she'd stopped noticing years ago.

"You're doing it again," she said.

"What?"

"That thing. Where you're physically here but your mind is somewhere else. Probably that damn server room."

Richard's palm curled around his wine glass, his knuckles white. "We're launching in two days, Sarah. The whole project—"

"The project. Right." She stood up, her chair scraping against the hardwood. "Your team's in Tokyo. It's 3 AM there. They can handle it for one night."

Lightning fractured the sky outside, illuminating the kitchen in a brief, stark flash. For a split second, she saw their reflection in the darkened window—two people who'd spent a decade building something that had somehow become nothing.

"I'm going to check the cable box," Richard muttered, pushing away from the table. "Maybe we can at least—"

"Watch something? Pretend everything's fine?" She followed him into the living room, watching him drop to his knees beside the entertainment center. His posture was so familiar, so defeated, that it caught in her throat.

"It's just a loose connection," he said, fumbling with the coaxial cable. "Always is."

"Richard."

He paused, his back to her.

"When was the last time you were happy? Like actually happy?"

The question hung between them, heavier than the storm-saturated air. Another bolt of lightning lit the room, and this time she saw his hand trembling as it rested against the wall.

"I don't know," he whispered.

"Me neither." She sat on the couch, wrapping her arms around herself. "I made that soufflé from your grandmother's recipe. It took three hours. You didn't even notice."

Richard turned slowly, his eyes rimmed with red. "I'm sorry. About tonight. About... a lot of nights."

"Sorry doesn't fix anything." She reached out, palm open, an invitation she wasn't sure she meant. "But maybe the blackout is a sign. No internet, no distractions. Just us."

He sat beside her, not touching, just close enough that she could feel his warmth. The cable remained disconnected on the floor. Outside, thunder rolled like the earth itself was rearranging.

"Talk to me," she said. "Not about servers. Not about deadlines. Just talk."

Richard took a breath, and for the first time in years, he let go of everything except the woman beside him and the dark room and the storm that had finally, finally, broken them open.