Gifts in Black Paper

Every year, Isabella chose her gifts carefully: a scarf he’d admired in a shop window, a hand pianted mug in his favorite color, a hardcover novel he’d mentioned once at dinner. Yet each present vanished in time—“left at the office,” “loaned to a friend,” “broken by accident.” She’d ask, gently, and he’d wave off her worry, already forgetting what she’d given.

On her next birthday, Isabella wrapped each “lost” gift in black paper and set them on the dining table. She waited in silence as her husband entered, blinking at the mound of unfamiliar parcels.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

She only gestured for him to open them. He peeled the paper back from the scarf—its wool soft but strangely cold. The mug was next; he touched the rim and shivered as frost bloomed beneath his fingers. The book followed, its pages warped, the words inside melting into blurred, unreadable lines.

With each box, a murmur filled the room—a hush of memories, her wishes for gratitude, her hopes for kindness, her disappointment folded small and tight. The final package was heavier: a collection of all the cards and notes she’d written, never read, their ink running like tears.

The whispers swelled, mournful and insistent, crowding out every other sound. He tried to apologize, but his voice was lost among them, thin and fading. Isabella sat, hands folded, listening.

By nightfall, the whispers faded. Only silence remained—and when he reached for her, she was already gone, her absence as complete and chilling as the empty gifts laid out before him.