Our wedding was simple. I wore a navy suit; she wore ivory silk. Friends whispered that we looked like teenagers again. For the first time in years, my heart felt alive.

That night, after the guests had gone, I poured two glasses of wine and led her to the bedroom. Our wedding night—a gift I thought age had quietly taken from me.

When I helped her slip off her dress, I noticed something unusual: a scar near her collarbone, another along her wrist. I frowned—not because of the scars themselves, but because of the way she flinched when I touched them.