At the funeral, people repeated the same phrases over and over, their voices blending into a dull hum.
“She’s not in pain anymore.”
“She was so strong.”
“Time will help.”
Time did nothing. It didn’t heal. It only sharpened the absence. Each day without her felt louder than the one before.
Three months after we buried her, my father called Benjamin and me and asked us to come over.
“Just to talk,” he said. His voice was careful and measured, as if he were choosing each word from a fragile shelf.
When we arrived, the living room looked the same. The furniture hadn’t moved. The photos on the walls were unchanged. But something felt wrong, as though the air itself had shifted.
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