The alpine air bit through Leon's coat as he stepped out of the regional train station in Zermatt because Emily was in Zermatt with Lila on a trip. Leon kept his hood up and scarf high as he walked the path to the hotel he'd discreetly booked. It was only a few minutes far from where Emily had stayed close enough to watch, and far enough to remain invisible. He wasn't here to confront. He was here to understand.
The next morning, he stood at the edge of a quiet trail, a steaming cup of coffee in one gloved hand, his eyes fixed on the Emily's cabin ahead.
He saw Emily step outside first, adjusting Lila's woolen scarf, brushing snow off her shoulders like she used to. Then came a boy around Lila's age, dark-haired and laughing easily as he tossed a snowball in Lila's direction.
And then came the man. He was tall, in his mid-thirties maybe, with a worn flannel jacket and quiet presence. He didn't hold Emily. He didn't touch her. But they stood close. Their conversations had no awkward gaps. They moved like a family.
Leon's chest tightened not with rage, but with something more hollow. He'd never seen Emily that light in years.
Leon watched from afar. Later that day, they went to a cafe. Emily sat across from the man with Lila and that kid. It was the same café where Leon and Emily came before on a vacation before Lila was born.
Leon watched through the frost-smeared window, invisible to them all. He felt like a ghost.
That night, back in his hotel, Leon dug out his laptop. He opened a folder called "Us."
Inside that folder there were hundreds of photos, years old now. Like: when Leon and Emily were in Florence. Their wedding in Prague. Lila's birthday photo and when she was born.
And then the gradual thinning.
Photos stopped. Messages became screenshots of flight confirmations, reminders, wire transfers. Somewhere between "I love you" and "I'll be home soon," the thread had worn thin.
The next morning, he followed them to the ski slopes not close, but close enough.
Leon heard Emily call that man Adrian. She told him to tighten Milo's boots.
That man's name was Adrian, and that boy's name was Milo.
Adrian carried both children to the children's sleds and handed Emily a thermos with a smile.
There was no romantic intimacy. Just ease. Kindness. Presence. Things Leon hadn't offered in a long time.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the peaks, Leon stood at the ridge, alone, staring out over the snow-covered town.
He didn't feel betrayed. He felt replaced. No, replaced wasn't even the word. He'd left, and someone else had filled the silence. Not with manipulation. Not by force. But with gentle, everyday effort.
That night, Emily sent him a message:
Emily: "We're heading back in two days. Lila wants to show you the painting she made. I told her you'd love it."
Leon didn't reply. He simply sat with the message open, watching the blinking cursor that once carried so much meaning between them.
Then he closed the phone, stepped outside into the quiet snow, and
looked up at the stars.
End of Chapter 2