PROLOGUE Early December mornings in Toronto are the worst—an unwelcoming limbo between autumn and winter, where the air is thick with damp cold, clinging to the skin like an unshaken sense of dread. The sky, an oppressive shade of dark gray, looms over the city, pregnant with the promise of snow that stubbornly refuses to fall before Christmas. Wind tumbles off the lake, curling through the streets, seeping into collars and cuffs, turning breaths into fleeting ghosts. It’s a morning meant for staying in, for lingering under warm covers, for waiting out the season’s indecision. But the city never waits. Rush hour creeps forward, sluggish but relentless. Headlights blur through the mist. Car horns sputter half-hearted protests. Somewhere, a siren wails, distant, disinterested. The streets pulse with movement, a slow, synchronized march of commuters clutching their Tim Hortons cups like lifelines, the steam rising in desperate wisps. At a busy intersection, a small crowd clusters at the curb, waiting for the light to change. Their faces are drawn, indifferent, minds already trapped inside spreadsheets and inboxes. The towering glass monolith of the office building ahead looms over them, swallowing the weak morning light, its steel edges slicing into the sky. A place of deals and deadlines, of long hours under fluorescent buzz. The light turns green. The crowd moves forward, a current of wool coats and briefcases, heads bowed against the wind. No one looks up. No one ever looks up. Then, a sound—deep, visceral, wrong. A sickening crack of metal bending, glass exploding, air being forced violently aside. A human body, a blur in freefall, slams into the roof of a parked car with a force so final, so absolute, that for a moment, no one moves. The impact is deafening, sending out a ripple of silence before the world remembers how to react. A woman screams. Someone stumbles backward, hand over mouth. A man drops his coffee, brown liquid splattering onto frozen pavement. Others shrink away, instinctively shielding themselves from a horror they’ve already witnessed. The car’s roof caves inward, crumpled like an empty can, shattered glass glittering over the wreckage. The body, a woman, lies sprawled across the ruins of metal and glass, limbs twisted unnaturally, hair fanned out like ink spilled across a canvas. There is no movement. No sound. She is impossibly still. For a moment, there is nothing but stunned, breathless shock. Then, as if waking from a collective trance, hands fumble for phones, voices rise in frantic murmurs. “Oh my God.” “Did she, did she fall?” “Jesus Christ.” “Someone call 911!” A siren wails closer, sharp and immediate, slicing through the chaos. Two police cruisers skid to a stop, doors flying open, uniforms spilling onto the street. Officers push forward, clearing bystanders, establishing control over the unraveling scene. Another pair of officers corral the closest witnesses, ushering them into the lobby of the towering building, their expressions grim. These people saw it happen. They will be questioned. They will be asked for details they wish they didn’t have. And the woman who fell from the sky stays behind. She is beyond saving. Some people turn away, unable to stomach the sight. Others, transfixed, stare as if trying to make sense of the impossible. But one undeniable truth lingers in the freezing air, thick and suffocating. This December morning, so ordinary just hours ago, has been rewritten, warped into something dark, something irreversible. And high above the crowd, a window yawns open, the cold creeping in like an uninvited guest. Chapter 1 "I fucking hate it," Ann muttered under her breath, pulling the door shut behind her with just enough force to make her point without actually slamming it. Spike tugged eagerly on his leash, blissfully oblivious to her simmering rage. What exactly she hated at that moment—her in-laws, the house, the entire neighborhood—was hard to pinpoint. Probably all of it. The suffocating combination. Spike, on the other hand, was ecstatic. His tail wagged with the unbridled enthusiasm of a creature whose only expectation for the day was a cavalcade of glorious smells. This was his moment. His time to shine. Ann used to love autumn. Crisp air, golden leaves, the scent of woodsmoke curling through the streets. Now, the cold felt sharper, like it was slicing through something fragile inside her. Maybe the season hadn’t changed overnight, maybe it had been shifting for years, and she just hadn’t noticed. That was the thing about slow decay. You never saw it happening. Not until something snapped. She walked faster, as if distance could loosen the invisible grip of the house behind her. She wouldn’t call it a home, rather a stage, where she played the role of the perfect wife under the watchful eyes of her in-laws. Her mother-in-law’s gaze, full of quiet disapproval. Her father-in-law’s silence, heavier than any words. Out here, she could breathe. And yet, even as she escaped, the neighborhood reminded her of everything she wasn’t. The identical lawns, the polished mailboxes, the curated perfection. A place where people lived not for comfort but for appearances. But for now, it didn’t matter. Spike bounded forward, nose to the ground, already lost in the scent of something profound, perhaps a trace of last night’s gourmet leftovers tossed out in a pristine compost bin. Ann smiled faintly despite herself. For the next hour and a half, this would be her time, too, the one part of the day that belonged solely to her. In that sense, Spike had become a real treasure, giving her an excuse to escape the house and claim these precious moments. Not that he knew it, of course. Mark, Ann's husband, was a man obsessed with appearances. His entire world was built on a carefully crafted façade, polished to perfection, not for himself, but to dazzle anyone who happened to be watching. Success wasn’t only something he relentlessly pursued. It was also something he flawlessly performed. Symbols meant everything to him. Yes, those fucking symbols, Ann thought. The proper neighborhoods, the right friends, the right restaurants, the right jobs, the whole damn image of a perfect life. With two kids in the picture and a trophy wife on his arm, a dog felt like another piece of the puzzle. Oh yes, a dog. She scoffed internally. That was a big one for him. He’d pressed Ann on the subject, spinning it into some sentimental fantasy about family life. A dog was essential, he’d argued, a hallmark of domestic bliss. Ann resisted with all her might, but Mark wore her down in the end. Her revenge came simply. And deliciously. When it was time to choose, she went for the ugliest dog she could find. Spike, with his wiry fur, uneven ears, and perpetually disgruntled expression, was a far cry from the glossy golden retriever Mark had envisioned. Oh, how furious Mark had been. Furious in that quiet, seething way of his, which made it even better. But then something unexpected happened. The kids adored Spike. Within days, he was sleeping at the foot of their beds, proudly accompanying them on walks and greeting them with uncontainable joy every morning. Spike had cemented his place in the family, and even Ann couldn’t help but grow fond of him. As for Mark, he tolerated Spike with the resigned air of a man who’d lost a battle he didn’t quite realize he was fighting. “Battles, battles, battles,” Ann murmured to herself as she turned off the street onto the narrow nature trail that wound its way behind the neighborhood. The trail was shaded and quiet, offering a brief escape from the oppressive perfection of the over-manicured neighborhood, where every lawn was clipped to within an inch of its life, and every house seemed to glare with forced cheerfulness. Spike trotted happily beside her, oblivious to her muttering. Her life had become one long, silent battle. She’d never imagined marriage would feel like this—a constant war fought with no sound, no referee, and no visible wounds. Ann knew she’d made a mistake. No, that wasn’t quite right. She hadn’t made the mistake. She’d been swept into it. She hadn’t chosen Mark so much as she’d been chosen by him. It was her looks, of course. Ann had always known she wasn’t classically beautiful. Her features were too sharp for that. But she was unforgettable. Impressive. Even stunning. Stunning in the way a lightning bolt slicing through a night sky is stunning. Ann was tall, slim, and effortlessly blonde, with a confidence she hadn’t entirely earned but wore well enough. She’d been the trophy wife Mark always wanted, and he’d closed the deal like the seasoned negotiator he was. And what a deal it had been. The adoring fiancé, the extravagant wedding, the grand promises whispered into her ear when no one else was listening. Then, as if on cue, the curtain dropped. The applause faded. The show was over. Now, it was just the routine: her in the house with the kids, his parents hovering like ghosts, and Mark away in Toronto, chasing his lawyer glory and sketching new goals on an ever-distant horizon. For him, the marriage was a done deal. A box ticked off his list. For Ann, it was a choice she never really made but couldn’t seem to escape. Almost eight years ago, Ann’s world had felt wide open. She was nearly thirty, shifting jobs, leaving a bustling corporate bank for a smaller, better-paying financial firm, a step up, though not exactly a dream. Finance had never thrilled her, but her father had once said, “People who work with other people’s money are never poor.” It stuck. She was good with numbers, so she followed the money. She worked hard, moved up quickly, and earned enough to survive Toronto’s daylight robbery of a rental market. Then came Mark. He was a lawyer, handling a dull case for the bank. Ann barely noticed him until the next day, when a bouquet appeared on her desk with a note in crisp handwriting: Lunch at Sassafraz. 12:30. See you there. Bold. Unexpected. Exciting. She went, of course. One lunch turned into two, then five, then weekend getaways and extravagant gestures that made her feel like the center of his universe. Mark had a relentless charm, and Ann let herself fall. Then, after the honeymoon, everything stopped. No flowers. No surprise dinners. No thoughtful notes. Mark, the man who had pursued her so persistently, had vanished, replaced by someone who saw her as an afterthought. She rationalized it at first. Maybe stress. Maybe the weight of marriage settling in. She kept waiting for another surprise, another whispered promise. It never came. Ann sighed, the memory wrapping around her, weighty and unwanted, like humid air before a storm. Those early days felt like a lifetime ago, a mirage of happiness that faded the closer she got to it. *** Up ahead, Ann spotted him. The man with the dog. They crossed paths often, yet she had never spoken to him, never returned his polite nods. But today, for some reason, she couldn’t ignore him. A few days ago, she had seen him differently. Her in-laws had left early for Niagara, and the house had been unusually quiet. For once, she had lingered over breakfast, moving at her own pace, untethered from their scrutiny. Instead of their usual trail, she had taken Spike down to the lake. The sky had been sharp and blue, the water gleaming in the late-morning sun. That’s where she saw him. He had been sitting alone on a bench beneath an old oak tree, his dog curled at his feet. At first, she hadn’t thought much of it until she heard him speaking. Not in the usual, affectionate way people talked to their pets. No teasing, no exaggerated baby talk. His voice was low, serious, almost… urgent. The words weren’t in English. Some European language, smooth and melodic, yet weighed down by something unsaid. She hadn’t understood a word. She hadn’t needed to. There had been something in his tone, a quiet confession, meant for no one but the dog. She had lingered just long enough to feel intrusive, then kept walking. But the moment stayed with her, unsettled her. A private grief, witnessed by accident. And now, here he was again, heading toward her on the trail, his stride steady, his black lab trotting beside him. She even knew where he lived—just a few doors down, across from her in-laws’ house. He had moved in three years ago, but she had carefully avoided neighbors. Now, though, she found herself looking. As he passed, he gave his usual polite nod, the faintest trace of a smile. But this time, she nodded back. Barely a movement, a flicker of acknowledgment. For the first time, she really saw his eyes. Deep brown, soft but heavy, like a lake in late autumn, vast, still, carrying an ache beneath the surface. She paused, holding Spike back as he attempted to splash into a muddy puddle, her gaze lingering on the man as he disappeared down the trail. He was pretty tall, definitely six feet, with a slim, athletic build that hinted at regular exercise. Tennis, maybe. Squash. He looked to be in his forties, maybe late forties, she guessed, and carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who once had things figured out but had been dealt too many blows since. A strange feeling washed over her. An urge she couldn’t explain. She wanted to call out, stop him, and tell him she could listen if he needed someone. She could lend him her ear, maybe even open her soul if it helped. But then Spike yanked impatiently on the leash, and she hissed at him for his unruly behavior. She turned back toward the trail with a sharp tug, shaking off the fleeting impulse. She had her own problems, after all. Why on earth would she take on someone else’s? *** Ann dialed Jack, her younger brother, in a desperate attempt to wipe away the lingering impact of the man on the trail, along with the thoughts about her life with Mark. She needed a lifeline, a distraction, a conversation, anything to switch gears. But she was unlucky. Jack’s phone was off, and all Ann got was voicemail. With a sigh of frustration, she shoved her iPhone back into her pocket and turned her attention to Spike. A thought flickered through her mind—if Jack had answered the phone, would she have admitted how she really felt? She let the question hang, unanswered. Focus on the walk, she told herself. She could at least enjoy the fall. The leaves had just begun their slow transformation, painting the trees in splashes of amber, gold, and crimson. Together, they formed a symphony of nature, a final masterpiece before the long winter sleep. Ann let the beauty wash over her, calming her restless mind. Right," Ann thought. "I could at least enjoy the fall before returning to that haunted house." She had no way of knowing, at that moment, just how cruel the universe could be. Just how literal that word, fall, would become.