If anyone had told me that the same woman who used to blush whenever I touched her would one day beg me not to touch a piece of cloth, I would have laughed.

Clara and I looked like those couples people use for wedding magazine covers—quiet, gentle, soft smiles, always holding hands at church. I’m an architect, always thinking straight lines and plans; she’s a fashion designer who fills our flat with colour, noise, and cloth. From morning till night, her machine hums like a bee.

We married two years ago, and I can’t lie, she changed my life. But there’s something about my wife that I still don’t understand. Every time we’re about to be intimate, she insists on tying a red cloth around her waist first. Not lace, not silk—just that same red wrapper.

The first time, I thought it was one of those small romantic habits women have. She said, “It helps me feel connected.” I didn’t ask connected to who or what. You know how marriage is—you choose peace over curiosity. But after months of the same thing, same routine, same cloth, I started noticing the way she folded it carefully after we finished, how she tucked it under her pillow like something sacred.

One evening, after we had a small argument, she went to bed early. I was still awake, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my eyes kept going back to that cloth lying at the edge of the bed. The red looked darker under the bulb, like it was holding heat.

I don’t even know why I touched it. Maybe because it looked ordinary but carried too much importance in this house. My hand brushed over it, and I felt a rough patch near one corner—stiff, like something had dried there and refused to go. When I turned it under the light, I saw a faint brown stain. It didn’t look like paint or dye. It looked… old.

I bent closer, trying to see it well, and that was when I heard her voice behind me.

“Ethan.”

I turned, and she was sitting up on the bed, eyes wide open, breathing fast.

“Please,” she said, her voice low but firm, “don’t ever touch that cloth again.”

I wanted to laugh, to joke that it’s just cloth, but something about her face stopped me. She wasn’t angry. She looked… afraid. Her hands were shaking, and for the first time since I married her, she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

She stood up, took the cloth from my hand, folded it slowly, and held it to her chest like she was protecting a secret.

I wanted to ask her what was inside that wrapper, but my mouth refused to open. I just watched her walk to her side of the bed and slide it under her pillow again.

That night, she didn’t sleep beside me. She turned her back, holding the red cloth like a baby.

And for the first time since I knew Clara, I started to wonder—what exactly did my wife bring into this marriage that she’s still hiding from me?

Chapter 2 will be dropping soon. If you want to receive notification when I drop it, don’t hesitate to F0ll0w, llke and c0mmēnt.

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