For years, our country house was our retreat. My husband and I planted flowers, harvested vegetables,

and escaped the city’s noise. But lately, he always refused to go—claiming work, fatigue, or errands.

I didn’t question it until a neighbor casually said, “I saw your husband at the country house yesterday.” My heart froze. He had told me he was at work.

The next weekend, when he again declined, I followed him. His car sat by the country house. My pulse raced as I entered.

The familiar scent of pinewood was gone, replaced by a heavy, strange odor. His workbench, once messy with garden tools,

now held unusual objects. On a table lay papers covered in symbols, sketches, and notes.

Old photographs—some of us, others of strangers—were pinned to the wall, some marked with strange lines.

The floor creaked. My husband emerged from the shadows, pale at my presence. “Please—it’s not what you think,” he whispered.

When I asked what it was, his voice trembled: “It’s research. I’ve been studying things I don’t fully understand. I didn’t

want to involve you until I knew more.”In that moment, I realized this wasn’t betrayal—it was a secret life we now had to face together.