Days learned new shapes. Helen opened windows, let the house breathe. She washed the children’s sheets and folded them away without crying. She fixed the pantry hinge David had promised to fix months ago. She watered the fern that always seemed halfway to giving up.
Each small task felt like a piece of herself returning from a long, unannounced absence. The ache didn’t vanish, but it stopped being the only thing in the room.
Sometimes healing sounds like a hinge clicking back into place in an otherwise quiet kitchen.
