The heater’s hum seemed louder, filling the space between us.
I searched his face, hoping for a flicker of recognition.
But he was gone already, in some way I couldn’t reach.
The kitchen felt foreign, unfamiliar, as if it were no longer mine.
“What about everything we’ve built here?”
He shook his head, dismissing my words.
“Times change,” he said, as if that explained everything.
My fingers tightened around the cup, needing something to hold onto.
It was the only thing I felt I had left.
The memory of his childhood laughter echoed faintly in my mind.
But it was just that—a memory, fading fast.
I took a deep breath, the air heavy and thick.
“What do I do now?” I asked, more to myself than to him.
His silence was my only answer.
Minutes stretched, the heater’s drone the only sound.
I turned again to the window, to the garden.
Still there, but different now, somehow.
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