The glass house was a tomb.
For three days after the funeral, they had orbited within it, two ghosts in a machine that had ground to a halt. The silence was absolute, but it was heavy. It was filled with the memory-shape of a small, squealing laugh; with the phantom click-clack of a plastic toy being dragged across the marble floor.
Karlman sat in his home office, the screens of his high-end trading rig dark. He hadn't showered. He was still wearing the trousers from the funeral. His "A-type" brain, the one that ran on data and algorithms, was caught in an endless, horrifying loop:
If I hadn't taken the call.
If I hadn't been distracted.
If the car hadn't been electric.
If the door hadn't been left ajar.
If. If. If.
He was a data analyst
drowning in variables he could no longer control. He had murdered his own joy. And the woman in the next room, the woman who was his anchor, his co-conspirator, his partner in their 17-year war against the world... she was now his judge.
Eunice, for her part, had returned to the stool at the kitchen island. She was no longer catatonic; she was empty. She had taken the torn, stuffing-less, yellow-fabric "rabbit" skin from the garage and placed it on the marble counter. It was her totem. A reminder.
She had run the final calculation. Her father was right. His mother was right. The churches, the doctors, the world—they were all right.
They were a "biological error." A "spiritual abomination." A "cursed union."
For 17 years, their "A-type" arrogance had made them believe they could win. That their love, their success, their willpower, was stronger than the rules. They had fought the world and lost. Then, they had been given a miracle—Lia—a brief, joyful cease-fire. And in their arrogance, they had believed it was a victory.
But the curse, Eunice now understood, was patient. It was a predator. It hadn't been defeated. It had simply been waiting. It had waited until their hearts were full, until they were soft and happy and vulnerable. Then it had struck, using the very thing that defined them—Karlman's ambition, his drive—as the weapon.
You don't get to win, the universe had finally said. You don't get to be happy. You are, and always will be, the error.
On the fourth day, Karlman, his voice a dry rasp, spoke.
"We... we can't... stay here."
Eunice looked up. Her eyes were lifeless. "Where, Karlman? Where do we go? The curse goes with us. You go with us."
He had no answer to that. Because it was true. He was the curse.
So, they did the last "A-type" thing they would ever do. They liquidated.
They didn't just "move." They excised their lives. It was not a project of grief; it was a project of demolition. They were two strategists, and their final strategy was a scorched-earth retreat.
The glass house was sold in a week, fully furnished. They didn't pack. They hired a "disposal" crew. They walked out of the house with one suitcase each, as if they were checking out of a hotel.
The cars, the stocks, the company—Karlman sold his shares, dissolved his active role, and transferred everything into a simple, low-yield trust. The "dynasty" was officially bankrupt.
They moved to a place where "A-types" went to die.
It was a small, coastal town three states away. A place of fog, and salt, and gray, churning water. A place where the houses were small, the wood was damp, and no one cared about your last name or your portfolio.
They rented a small, furnished bungalow on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was the antithesis of the glass house. It was dark. It was cramped. The wind whistled through the old window frames. It was a house that was already full—full of the sound of the ocean, the gulls, the foghorn. There was no silence for the ghosts to fill.
And they accepted.
This was the new reality. They were 42 and 38. They were childless. They were no longer "A-types." They were just... survivors.
They developed a new routine. A routine of mutual, silent penance.
Karlman's "work" now consisted of a 30-minute check on their finances, followed by long, aimless drives in a cheap, second-hand car. He would drive for hours, ending up in anonymous parking lots, just sitting. He was a man with no mission. He was the murderer, serving his time, and his prison was the woman he still, bafflingly, loved.
Eunice's "work" was the ocean. She would walk the beach for hours, in the fog, in the rain. She was the judge, and her verdict was guilty. She was guilty of pride. He was guilty of... it. The word they never said. Murder.
They were locked together. The curse hadn't separated them. That, they both realized, was the true genius of its cruelty. It hadn't just taken Lia. It had taken them, and chained them together in the dark.
One evening, nearly a year after the move, Karlman found Eunice sitting on the damp porch, watching a storm roll in. He sat, not next to her, but in a separate chair, six feet away. The accepted, mandated distance.
"It's... cold," he offered. It was the first time he'd spoken to her all day.
Eunice didn't look at him. She watched the gray waves crash against the black rocks.
"It doesn't matter," she said, her voice flat.
They had accepted their fate. They were not Eunice and Karlman, the fighters. They were Eunice and Karlman, the childless. The broken. The cursed. And this gray, cold, empty life was their penance. The fight was over. They had lost.