Abigail—still striking in her silvered elegance—sits alone on the porch in morning light, her hands wrapped around a chipped coffee cup. The chair beside her, empty now, was once filled by her husband of forty-plus years before his sudden death. The air is thick with memories: laughter echoing across summer mornings, soft words shared in the hush before dawn. Now, her mind struggles to imagine who she even is without him, let alone the future she must face alone. A tear rolls down her cheek as, for the thousandth time, she wishes this were a dream instead of the reality it is. Yet each night leads to a new day, and as the early-morning sunlight creeps across the porch, Abigail keeps the tradition of coffee here before tending to the mundane daily tasks of survival. With the sudden stirring of a breeze, she swears she faintly hears his voice whisper: “We will always have the love that we built together.” He would always tell her that, and remembering it now, her pain eases just a little.
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