On the day he realized she was gone, all he found was a photograph half-consumed by fire on the nightstand—her smile eaten away by flames, ashes resting on his suit from the night before, still unworn out of. No arguments. No tears. Evelyn had left quietly, vanishing like smoke, evaporating completely from their ten years of marriage. It wasn’t until his assistant burst into the office, voice trembling: “There’s a lead—in the church in the north of the city.” He snapped his head up. “Find her. Bring her back—now!” “It’s not…” The assistant’s face turned pale. “Someone called the police. This morning at six, the priest found her belongings on the altar—her wedding dress, her ring… and a letter addressed to you.” “Ridiculous!” He hurled his cup across the room. “She was in the music room last night, revising her score!” “But… the tour tickets are already booked. Seven cities worldwide. First concert next week—in Iceland.” “When did I ever approve that tour?!” “Didn’t you sign off on it? The approval is in the financial system… dated three months ago.” He froze. Three months ago? That was when Marissa had returned from abroad. He’d been coming home late every night with excuses, even forgetting their anniversary. His phone suddenly vibrated. A cloud backup alert popped up automatically: 【User "Evelyn" deleted files restored】— A flood of photos filled the screen: him kissing Marissa at a restaurant, captured by Evelyn from a shadowed corner; the note on the fridge where he’d mistakenly written “Darling” beside Marissa’s name; and voice messages he thought he’d deleted—she had silently recorded them all. At the end, an audio file blinked red. He clicked it with shaking fingers. Her voice came through, soft as snowfall: *“You said… as long as I wanted to leave, the door would always be open… So this time… I really left.”* He ran toward the church like a madman. Snow howled. The church bell tolled. The priest stood at the doorway, watching him. “You’re too late.” “Where is she?!” “The funeral just ended. Her ashes are behind the statue of the Virgin Mary. She said… she didn’t want to see you.” He collapsed onto the snowy ground, screaming: “I don’t believe it! She wouldn’t die! She hated the cold—how could she go to Iceland alone—” Before he could finish, his phone vibrated again. A news alert flashed: 【Pianist Evelyn Holland triumphs at her debut performance, playing her new composition *Burning Memory* beneath the auroras of Reykjavik.】 The accompanying image showed her draped in black veil, fingers pressing the final key. The camera pulled back—empty seats stretched through the hall. Only a subtitle slowly emerged on screen: **“For the one who will never hear me again.”** And then he understood— She wasn’t dead. She was simply… no longer his.