Marriage Named Hatred Chapter 09
“Buy milk, eggs. Bastian’s shirts are back from the dry cleaners.”
“It’s going to rain tomorrow. Remember to bring an umbrella.”
“Mom called and said to come home for dinner this weekend.”
The handwriting was neat and delicate, each word written with care.
He brought the sticky notes to his desk and placed them beside the letters.
The paper had yellowed with time, but the handwriting remained clear.
Twelve years ago, he had used a fountain pen to write those words, stroke by stroke, and sent them to a girl whose identity he didn’t know.
Now, he finally knew.
He began comparing them. The curve of each horizontal stroke. The placement of each dot. The pressure in every hook.
Word by word, letter by letter.
The more he compared, the more his hands trembled.
That slight upward slant to the right. That subtle pause at the end of each stroke. They were exactly the same.
He picked up the last sticky note.
“Buy milk, eggs. Bastian’s shirts are back from the dry cleaners.”
Beside it was the final sentence of the last letter.
“I hope you sleep well every night.”
He overlapped the two sheets and held them up to the light.
The handwriting aligned perfectly. They were identical.
Bastian’s hand froze in midair, the paper trembling faintly between his fingers.
He set the letter down, braced both hands against the desk, and lowered his head, motionless.
That night, Bastian didn’t sleep.
He sat on the couch in the study, the lights off, holding that letter in his hand the entire time.
Memories began to surface from deep within, one after another, so vivid they made it hard for him to breathe.
Back in high school, whenever he passed by the music room, he would sometimes hear the sound of a violin.
At the time, he hadn’t known who was playing. He had only felt that there was something indescribable in that music.
Sometimes it was soft, like someone speaking to themselves. Other times it was intense, as if someone were struggling against something unseen.
He would stand in the hallway for a while, listening, before walking on.
One time, he had pushed the door open.
There had been only one girl in the room, her back to him, slender, dressed in a school uniform, practicing in front of a music stand.
She had been so focused that she didn’t notice him entering.
He listened for a moment and realized she was playing too fast, rushing the tempo.
“You’re playing too fast,” he had said.
The girl had startled, turned to look at him, then quickly lowered her head.
He had seen Annelise’s face, her fingers tightening around the bow, the tips of her ears faintly flushed.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t left.
He had walked to the piano, sat down, and placed his fingers on the keys.
“This piece should be played like this.” He played a few notes. “Try again.”
She raised her violin and followed his rhythm.
That had been the first and only time they played together.
When the music stopped, she looked like she wanted to say something to him.
“Bas?” Celestine’s voice had sounded from outside, calling for him. “Where are you?”
He had stood up and left with Celestine.
Before walking out, he had glanced back once, only to see Annelise lowering her head, packing her violin case.
She hadn’t looked up. She hadn’t looked at them.
At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it.
After that, he had never seen her in the music room again.
He thought of the years after their marriage, how she had matched his ties every morning, pressed his suits, and cooked for him herself.
He had never once spoken a kind word.
She had never argued, only endured.
He closed his eyes, his throat tightening as if something were gripping it mercilessly.
The truth came together like pieces of a puzzle, fitting one by one.
The person who had exchanged letters with him for three years, the one who had made his heart stir, the one he had thought he would meet, had always been Annelise.
And yet Annelise had watched him marry someone else, watched him misunderstand her, watched him humiliate her, watched him destroy everything she had.
She had said nothing.
She had said nothing.
He opened his eyes in despair, staring at the letter in his hand. “I hope you sleep well every night.”
During those five years, had she ever truly slept?
He lifted his hand and pressed it hard over his eyes.
Warm liquid seeped through the gaps between his fingers.
Outside, the sky slowly brightened.
The letters lay spread across the desk, their yellowed pages glowing softly in the morning light.
He remembered the day she left. He had been signing documents in his office, saying without even looking up, “She won’t get far. Sooner or later, she’ll come back and beg me.”
Now he knew—she wouldn’t come back.