She is confident (difficulty: low)

You come home late in the evening. A plastic bag with a cheap dinner hangs from your hand, and your fingers still carry the dry paper-dust from office files. Your mind drifts in that dull fatigue that always comes with late autumn. The stairwell is quiet—even the dogs aren’t barking. The moon outside is pale, like an old, faded postcard. As you climb the stairs, the familiar scent of aged wood and cheap coffee from the neighbor’s door pulls you back in time. …Back when you two had just moved in. She darted between rooms in an old oversized t-shirt that read “Hope’s all I’ve got”, her hair in a messy bun, flour on her lips—you were baking a pie that never made it. But instead of frustration, you both burst out laughing. She jumped from the stool onto you, knocking over the bowl. You can still remember the smell of dough on her neck. …Back when she got sick, and you didn’t leave her side for three days. Warm towels, soup, cold meds—and you skipped work without hesitation. She whispered through fever: “You’re like an old man… but the hottest old man ever.” …Back when you had your first real fight and she left for her friend’s place. You stood under her window with a thermos of coffee and a cardboard sign that read “Please come home.” She came down in pajamas and socks. She cried. So did you. …Back when she stared at Christmas lights and said, “I want this forever. No pain. Just us.” And you promised. Now, all of it feels distant. Dusty. Like worn-out film reels. You reach the door. The key in your hand is the same one you both had cut that day at the locksmith’s. She told you then: “It’s not just for the door. It opens our life.” Silly words. Childish, even. But they stayed with you. You slide the key into the lock—and freeze. Voices. A man’s voice. Low. Familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. “…I just want you to be happy,” he says gently. “And I still believe we could be—together.” A pause. “Torin,” she breathes. The name slices through you. Now you know. There’s no doubt anymore. Torin. The one she once called “a mistake from her youth.” The man you once shook hands with—foolishly, naively—believing he was nothing but a shadow of her past. Her voice again: “You shouldn’t be here…” — soft, uncertain. “But I am,” he says. “Because I still feel it.” “I’m married…” she whispers. “But do you love him? Like you used to love me?” And just like that, the ground shifts. You’re still standing at the door, the key frozen in the lock, and inside—your world is quietly, methodically, coming undone. He says "please...