Joram leaned back in his leather office chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he watched Essy through the glass partition. She was bent over a stack of files, her tall, slender frame poised in quiet concentration. Once, the sight of her had sent a thrill through him—her elegance, her devotion to the Christian Union, the way she carried herself with an air of grace. But now, all he saw were the cracks in the facade. The burnt spot on his carpet flashed in his memory—a permanent scar from the day she had carelessly set a hot pan down after making chapatis. "It was an accident," she had said, her voice soft with apology. But accidents, to Joram, were symptoms of a deeper carelessness. Then there was the cleaning—only the visible surfaces, never the hidden corners where dust gathered like secrets. He had asked her once, voice sharp with frustration, "Did your mother never teach you how to clean properly?" She had stiffened, hurt flickering in her eyes, but he hadn...
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