Heidi noticed it in the smallest things first.
Bruno smiled more.
He laughed now, too. Loudly. At things that were not clever, not profound, and not worth remembering. A grandchild tripping over her own feet, a poorly told joke, or the dog stealing bread from the table.
That alone told her more than any declaration ever could.
She watched from the doorway as he attempted to help one of the younger boys repair a loose shutter, only to make it worse, splintering the wood where it had not been broken before.
In the past, such a failure would have provoked a correction; now, he only laughed and promised to fix it "properly tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
Heidi felt her breath catch at the word.
For decades, Bruno had lived as though tomorrow was an uncertainty to be conquered, planned for, or denied entirely. Now he spoke of it casually, as something he assumed would come.
