It’s been two hours since my wife left home for the grocery store. Her perfume no longer lingers around me. The television is paused to the latest episode of Breaking Bad. As the sun sets, my body sinks into the couch, trapped in boredom. I’ve texted and called to no avail. Only one option is available for me, and that is to wait.

Across my street, flickers of light from a failing street lamp keep me awake. Each time the bulb revives from the dead, I roll my eyes. Do I have to walk out there and do something about it myself?

When the full moon makes itself known in the black above, it doesn’t distract me. For many minutes, I forget it exists. The stars blink to grab my attention, then dim when they realize their attempts are futile. The brightness closest to me is what I watch despite my frustrations with it. My wife remains absent, and I begin to wish for her warmth.

That’s when I notice the pattern.

Certain moments of light last longer than others. The dark it leaves behind can sometimes be quick like a startled critter.

Just like morse code.

I grab a slip of paper and pen and write what I see. The message comes to me one letter at a time like ice slowly melting until it releases what’s inside.

S…H…E

I…S

D…E…A…D

My heart stops, and so does the flickering. The palms of my hands press against the window, damp with condensation. Questions whisper in my mind as I put my coat and boots on. Is this coincidence? If not, who is sending this message? Is this a prank? The load of confusion makes my head heavy. With each step in the snow I feel as if I might explode.

Then, I see her.

At the food of the street lamp, my wife lay without movement. Blood from the crown of her head gathers in a puddle.

“Roxanne!”

Before I could reach my beloved, the street light awakens. It must have sensed me, must have prepared to mock me as I mourn. Instead, its last words put me at a halt.

H…E

I…S

B…E…H…I…N…D

Y…O…U