During my lunch break, I rushed home to cook for my wife.

She’d been sick for days—fever, weakness, barely able to get out of bed. I hadn’t slept much, hadn’t eaten properly, but I didn’t care. Taking care of her was the only thing on my mind.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

“Emily?” I called out.

No answer.

I set my bag down and walked toward the bedroom. The door was half open. The bed was empty.

Then I heard the sound.

Water running.

From the bathroom.

I frowned. She wasn’t supposed to be standing for long.

“Emily?” I said again, faster now.

I pushed the bathroom door open.

And my blood ran cold.

My wife was sitting on the floor of the shower, fully dressed, soaked, shivering