Tradition

I wasn’t a fan of physical contact at night and had often not even shared the bed with my deceased wife. Not that she would have ever dreamed of wanting to have me close at night. She never bothered to hide her reluctance to have me near her, least of all when we slept together—unless there was something that she wanted from me.

Ayla had asked for my closeness and I’d denied her.

The early morning light illuminated her puffy face. Her lashes stuck to her skin with dried tears. She was close, and had moved closer in sleep until we were almost touching. I felt the unreasonable desire to touch her—and not in a sexual way. Propped up on my elbow, I watched her peaceful sleep. As with many nights before, Maya ’s blood-covered body had haunted my dreams. I hardly ever dreamed about the people I’d killed, and yet my dead wife still filled my nights.

Ayla stirred, lips parting in a soft sigh. I pushed myself up and swung my legs out of bed, turning my back to her.

The bed shifted. I threw a