Chapter 10 010. The Chip

Leona

Cleaning always helped me think. It gave my hands something to do while my mind wandered. That afternoon, I decided to tackle the study. Dust had settled on the bookshelves, and papers were scattered across the desk. Harryson had been spending more time in there lately, and I thought a little tidying up might make the space feel less... heavy.

The air in the room was stale. It smelled like paper and something faintly metallic. I opened the window, letting in a breeze that rustled the curtains and made the dust dance in the sunlight.

I started with the bookshelves, wiping down the rows of hardcovers and paperbacks, some of them unread for years. Then I moved to the desk, stacking papers into neat piles, throwing out scribbled notes and bent paperclips. There were receipts from stores I didn't recognize, crumpled napkins with numbers I didn't understand, and a half-empty notebook with pages torn out.

As I organized the desk drawers, I found pens without caps, old receipts, and a few broken staples. Nothing unusual. Just clutter. But in the back of the bottom drawer, beneath a stack of envelopes, something caught my eye.

It was a small, black chip-no bigger than a fingernail. It had no markings, no labels, nothing to indicate what it was. Just a smooth, unmarked surface.

I held it up to the light, turning it over in my fingers. It looked like some kind of electronic component, maybe a memory chip or part of a circuit board. But why would Harryson have something like this hidden away?

A chill ran down my spine. My fingers felt suddenly cold, as if the chip had drained the warmth from them. I quickly slipped it into my pocket and closed the drawer.

---

Later that evening, as we sat down for dinner, I couldn't stop thinking about the chip. It was like a stone in my shoe-small but impossible to ignore. Harryson was unusually quiet, pushing his food around on his plate. His eyes kept drifting to the window, as if he was somewhere else entirely.

I wanted to ask him about it. To hold the chip up and say, "What is this?" But something held me back. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the look on his face, distant and unreadable.

"Everything okay?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

He looked up, startled. "Yeah, just tired. Long day at work."

I nodded, forcing a smile. "I understand."

But I didn't. Not really. There were too many questions swirling in my mind. Why was he acting so distant? What was he hiding? And why did I feel like I was starting to live with a stranger?

He finished dinner quickly, barely touching his drink. Then he mumbled something about needing to check emails and went back to the study. I listened to the sound of the door clicking shut.

I stared at my plate for a while, appetite gone. Then I cleared the table, washed the dishes, and wiped down the counters in slow, careful circles. My thoughts kept returning to the chip in my pocket. I could feel it pressing against the fabric, like it was waiting.

---

That night, after Harryson had gone to bed, I sat alone in the living room, the chip in my hand. I turned it over and over, hoping it would somehow reveal its secrets. But it remained silent, enigmatic.

The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only thing keeping me company.

I considered searching online, trying to identify it, but I hesitated. What if it was something dangerous? What if I stumbled upon something I wasn't supposed to know?

I thought about waking him. Asking outright. But the timing felt wrong. Something about his behavior made me cautious. Like I was dealing with a version of him I didn't recognize. Not the Harryson I married. Not the man who used to laugh at my terrible jokes or leave surprise notes in my lunch.

This new version of him felt distant. Sharper. Like he was always calculating something.

I slipped the chip into an old jewelry box on the shelf, tucking it beneath a pair of earrings I hadn't worn in years. I decided to keep it hidden, at least for now. I would wait, watch, and try to understand what was happening to my husband. Because deep down, I knew that this chip was a piece of a much larger puzzle.

---

The next few days passed slowly. I tried to act normal, to go about my daily routine like nothing had changed. But I kept catching myself watching Harryson out of the corner of my eye-trying to read the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoided looking me in the eye.

He wasn't cruel. Just... distracted. Like his mind was always somewhere else.

Sometimes I'd find him standing in the hallway, staring at nothing, lost in thought. Other times he'd be on his phone, speaking softly in a voice I could barely hear. When I walked into the room, he'd quickly end the call or change the screen.

I started keeping notes. Little things. Times, phrases, expressions. It felt ridiculous-paranoid even-but I couldn't ignore the growing feeling in my chest. That something was wrong. That I was being left in the dark.

One night, I followed him. He said he was going for a walk to clear his head. I waited a few minutes, then slipped on my shoes and quietly trailed after him.

He didn't go far. Just to the edge of the neighborhood, where the streetlight flickered and the trees swayed like shadows. He stood there for a long time, checking his watch, then looked around before pulling out his phone.

I stayed back, hidden behind a car parked down the street. I couldn't hear what he said, but I saw his face-tense, serious. Not like someone on a casual call.

He hung up and looked around again. Then he walked back home.

I made it inside before he did, pretending to read on the couch. He gave me a quick nod, said, "Didn't realize it got so late," and went straight to the bathroom.

My heart was pounding.

---

The next morning, I checked the jewelry box. The chip was still there, untouched. I picked it up again, just to feel it, to remind myself it wasn't some dream. It was real. Solid. And it had come from Harryson's desk.

I decided to take a photo of it this time. Maybe later, I'd try searching online. But not from our home network. I'd find a library or a coffee shop. Somewhere safer.

That afternoon, I went back to the study. I looked through the rest of the drawers, the books, even behind the framed photos. I didn't know what I was hoping to find. A clue? A confession? Something to tell me what was going on?

Instead, I found a second chip.

It was in a small tin box, hidden behind a row of law books. This one was slightly different-same size, but with tiny, etched lines on the surface, like a map or a code.

My hands started to shake.

Whatever this was, it wasn't random. Harryson was hiding these things for a reason. And if I had found two, maybe there were more.

I put the second chip in the same jewelry box, next to the first. Then I closed it and pushed it farther back on the shelf.

I needed time to think.

---

That night, Harryson didn't come home for dinner. He texted saying something came up at work. No explanation. No apology.

I sat alone at the table, staring at two plates and wondering when everything had changed.

We used to talk for hours. Now silence filled every room. And between that silence were questions I wasn't ready to ask-but knew I'd have to.

Because two chips meant two secrets. And I was starting to believe that I didn't really know the man I had married.

Not anymore.