I found my own obituary in his desk. Dated before the accident. My husband doesn't touch me. Doesn't fight with me. Doesn't stop me when I say I'm leaving. He just watches. Like he's memorising me. Like he already knows how this ends. He rebuilt his entire fortune around my death. Rewrote his will. Bought a house I've never seen and stocked it with my brand of tea, my size, my books. When I asked him why, he said: "So you have somewhere to go when you finally believe me." I don't remember the life where he killed me. My body does. It knows a drowning that isn't mine, a knot my hands can tie, ten seconds on a quay. And the person who made sure I forgot is still in this city. Smiling at me across dinner tables. Waiting for the cycle to close.