Return from the Dead

My name is Dylan Lee. I'm twenty-seven and work as a planner at a small company. That night, a year ago, was a nightmare I will never forget — I 'killed' my wife, Lydia Carter, with my own hands. The sky was pitch black; the rented apartment's window faced the back wall of an old building, not a trace of moonlight could get in. Only the desk lamp was on, casting a warm yellow glow on Lydia's face, though all color had vanished from her skin. I remember clearly: she lay on the living room floor, wearing the red chiffon dress I had given her; the tiny pearl at the neckline had fallen off and rolled beneath the sofa. The smell of blood spread through the cramped space, mingling with the mildew in the corners, sharp and suffocating. At that moment, I was frantic, my hands and legs shaking. I tried to open the window to air it out, but as soon as my hand touched the sill, I pulled back—I was terrified the neighbors would catch the smell, afraid someone might find out. For the next two weeks, I fought that bloody stench every single day. I scrubbed the floor with disinfectant, sprayed air freshener over and over, even took down the curtains to wash them, yet the smell lingered stubbornly, weaving through the corners of the rented apartment as if it had taken root. At night, I never sleep well. The moment I close my eyes, I dream of Lydia Carter lying on the ground, and cold sweat soaks my pillow. The days passed in a blur for an entire year. I changed jobs and worked overtime every night until late, just trying to wear myself out enough to think less about the chaotic mess in my mind. Tonight, I worked late again until eleven. I dragged my exhausted body out of the office building. The night wind was a bit chilly. I wrapped my coat tighter and held the convenience store bento box—ever since Lydia was gone, I rarely cooked for myself, either ordering takeout or eating from convenience stores. Several motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were broken. I groped my way up in the dark, my footsteps heavy. At the door, I fumbled for my keys, my fingers pausing briefly — Lydia Carter would always leave the entryway light on at this hour. But now, the house was certainly pitch black.