Part One: The House After Goodbye

The doctors gave Emily one month.

I married her anyway.

Three weeks later, I stood beside her grave, listening to the hollow sound of dirt striking the coffin. I had expected grief to hurt, but I had not expected it to make the entire world feel unfamiliar.

The house was the worst.

Every room carried some trace of her. Her favorite mug sat beside the sink. A scarf was draped over the back of a chair. One of her books remained open on the coffee table, as if she might return at any moment and continue reading.

But she never did.

I moved through the rooms without turning on the lights. The darkness felt more honest than the sunlight. In the kitchen, I could almost hear her humming while she prepared breakfast. In the hallway, I imagined the soft sound of her wheelchair rolling across the floor.

Then reality returned, and the silence became unbearable.

My sister, Claire, found me sitting at the dining table on the fourth morning after the funeral. She carried a plate of food and placed it in front of me.

“You haven’t eaten properly,” she said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I keep thinking she’ll call me,” I whispered. “I keep waiting to hear her say my name. Is that foolish?”

Claire pulled out the chair beside me. “No. It’s grief. It doesn’t follow rules.”

I stared at the untouched food.

“Do you remember our wedding?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “The backyard. The roses. The little white lights you hung in the trees.”

“Emily looked beautiful.”