Returning home was like stepping into a vacuum. The silence was absolute. No humming, no footsteps, no laughter, no calls for breakfast or arguments about vegetables.
I walked from room to room, touching every familiar surface. The bedspread where she had tucked me in, the kitchen knives lined up just so, the window sill where she sat reading letters or humming quietly — each one was a memory and a ghost.
I began to organize her belongings into boxes, cataloging the life she had lived for me, for us. Her clothes, her jewelry, her favorite books — each item a relic of love. When I opened the diary again, I traced the handwriting with trembling fingers, feeling her voice in each word.
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by the remnants of her life, I realized the house felt empty, but my heart overflowed. I wept silently, listening to the faint patter of rain against the windows, letting each memory ripple through me, aching and precious.
It was in this quiet that I understood: grief is not just about loss. It is about learning to carry the person you loved inside yourself forever, even when the world moves on.