The Blood Orange Falsity

The sky was doing something profoundly unnatural over Winnipeg. Not the usual autumn fire-and-ash that painted the horizon in predictable, if beautiful, strokes, but a colour that felt borrowed, stolen, pulled from some other, more volatile dimension. I watched it from the kitchen window, the warmth of my mug fading against my hands, its ceramic coolness a poor comfort against the growing chill in the air and in my gut. Outside, the air was sharp, carrying the scent of frost-nipped maple leaves and something unplaceable, metallic, like a penny left out in the rain for too long. It was the kind of sunset you might expect on a planet that was actively, violently dying. My planet, perhaps.

My reflection in the glass, layered over the impossible colours, looked thin, translucent. Tired. The bags under my eyes were a permanent fixture these days, like a badly applied tattoo. Owen always said I worried too much. But then, Owen always said a lot of things that turned out to be… not quite right. Or, more accurately, precisely wrong. The whole house felt pregnant with unspoken words, with truths I was afraid to acknowledge. Every creak of the old floorboards, every gust of wind rattling the pane, seemed to whisper his name, not in affection, but in accusation. It was ridiculous, this silent drama. The world could be ending, painted in shades of arterial spray and bruised plums, and I’d still be here, analysing the tilt of his head over breakfast.

The Weight of Unsaid Words

He came in then, from the garage, smelling of engine oil and the crisp, clean cold. Owen. My Owen. Or, the person who used to be. He barely glanced at the window, too busy shrugging off his heavy work jacket, which he left draped over the back of a kitchen chair like a discarded skin. The familiar motion, so ordinary, felt performative, almost a distraction. I watched him, the way he ran a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair, the slight slump of his shoulders. Was he tired? Or was it something else, something heavier, pressing him down?

“Rough day?” I asked, my voice a little too flat, too even. It was a test, I knew. A tiny, pathetic fishing line cast into a murky pond.

He grunted, pulling a beer from the fridge. The hiss of the can opening felt explosively loud in the quiet room. “Same as always. Car trouble at the shop.” He didn’t elaborate. Never did. His answers were always a dead end, a conversational cul-de-sac. He took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His back was to me, a broad, unyielding wall.

My gaze drifted to the jacket. A new tear at the shoulder, a fresh stain I didn’t recognise. Not oil. Something reddish-brown, almost the same shade as the sky, but darker, congealed. My stomach clenched. I forced myself to breathe, a small, shallow intake of air that did nothing to calm the frantic flutter behind my ribs. Was it rust? Paint? Or was I just seeing things, projecting the apocalyptic sunset onto his everyday grime? The satire of it all, that my domestic dread could mirror the literal end of the world, was not lost on me, even as a shiver crawled up my spine.

“That’s… quite a sunset,” I offered, my voice barely a whisper, hoping to draw him in, to share this moment, whatever it was. If this was the last sunset, shouldn't we witness it together? Should there be some shared wonder, some fleeting connection?

He turned, finally, and looked. His eyes, usually a calm, forgettable blue, seemed to reflect the strange, fiery light outside, giving them an unsettling intensity. He didn’t smile, didn’t gasp. Just a slow nod, almost imperceptible. “Yeah. Weird.”

That was it. “Weird.” Not beautiful, not terrifying, not a sign. Just… weird. His detachment was a familiar cloak, one he’d worn for months now. But tonight, against the backdrop of this insane, bleeding sky, it felt like an insult. A deliberate barricade.

I took a careful sip of my now-cold tea, the flavourless liquid doing little to soothe. The air around him felt different, heavier than the cold from outside. It was a density, a pressure, like before a storm, but one that was internal, personal. Every shared surface, every piece of furniture, felt like an observer in our silent drama. The chipped enamel on the old stove, the faded pattern on the kitchen rug, they all seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the inevitable crack.

The Unravelling Fibre

I found myself wandering through the house later, the lingering glow of that impossible sunset still casting long, warped shadows through the windows. Owen was in the living room, ostensibly watching some sports highlights, but I could hear the rhythmic click of his phone. He was always on that phone lately, always with that guarded, almost furtive expression. I felt the slow, insidious drip of suspicion in my veins, staining everything. It wasn't fair, I knew. But fairness had packed its bags and left weeks ago, taking all the simple comforts with it.

My feet led me to his study, a room I rarely entered. It was his sanctuary, his cluttered den of papers and half-finished projects. Usually, the door was locked. Today, it was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. A small, almost imperceptible detail: a tiny, dark smear on the white paint of the doorframe, a match for the stain on his jacket. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. It was an involuntary beat, a warning. I pushed the door open, the old wood groaning softly, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the unnaturally quiet house.

The room was a mess, even for Owen. Papers scattered across the desk, a coffee cup with a forgotten ring of evaporated liquid, a half-eaten bag of chips. But what caught my eye, instantly, was the small, tarnished silver locket on the floor beside his office chair. It wasn’t his. He didn’t wear jewellery. It certainly wasn't mine. It looked old, heavy, with intricate, almost faded carvings of what looked like stylized thistles. And it was open. Inside, two miniature photographs. One, a woman I didn’t recognise, dark hair pulled back severely, a faint, almost defiant smile. The other, a child, no older than five, with wide, earnest eyes that somehow felt familiar, unsettlingly so.

My breath hitched, a physical pang in my chest. This was not rust. This was not paint. The metallic tang in the air earlier, the stain on his jacket, his 'rough day,' his distance, the secretive phone calls, the locked door now left carelessly ajar—they all coalesced into a single, horrifying truth. The colours of the sunset outside, now faded to a bruised, bruised purple, seemed to mock me with their dramatic flair. The world wasn't ending. My world was ending, yes, but not with a bang or a fiery cosmic spectacle. It was ending with a forgotten locket, a silent, terrible reveal on a dusty floor in Winnipeg.

I knelt, slowly, my knees protesting against the sudden movement. My fingers, trembling slightly, reached for the locket, as if it might vanish if I didn’t seize it immediately. The metal was cool against my skin. The woman’s face, etched in faded sepia, seemed to stare up at me, a silent challenge. And the child… the child’s eyes were exactly the same shape as Owen’s, a chilling echo in miniature. The satirical edge of my internal monologue vanished, replaced by a hollow, sickening certainty. The domestic thriller wasn’t outside, in the dramatic sky. It was here, in this quiet, ordinary house, unfolding in front of me with the stark, brutal clarity of a winter day.

I closed my hand around the locket, the small weight in my palm feeling enormous, a stone in the pit of my stomach. The house was utterly silent now, save for the faint hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, almost imagined, click of Owen's phone from the living room. The last remnants of the sunset had finally dissolved, leaving behind a colourless, indifferent darkness. The wind picked up, a mournful whistle through the eaves, promising a truly brutal cold. I looked at the locket, then back at the door, the small dark smear still there, a testament to what I now knew. Everything was different now. Everything was broken. And I had no idea what to do with the pieces.

Owen's voice, muffled, called from the living room. “Annie? Everything alright in there?” The question, so innocent, so everyday, felt like a threat.