One winter morning, Henry collapsed while preparing tea in their kitchen. Clara called an ambulance and held his hand until help arrived. He died at the hospital before sunset. The speed of it left no final conversation, no careful farewell, and no instructions for navigating the silence he left behind.
Returning home, Clara found his unfinished tea beside the sink. His gardening coat hung near the back door, its pockets filled with string and screws. She pressed her face against its worn fabric and finally cried. For the first time in fifty-one years, nobody waited to comfort her there.