The day Claire died, the house forgot how to breathe. Every corner, every creaking floorboard, every draft that used to feel familiar now carried a quiet accusation. Morning light still poured through the living room windows, turning the motes in the air into drifting gold, warming the cushion of her favorite chair the way it had for decades. But it felt wrong, alien, like sunlight itself didn’t know where to land without her. I stood in the doorway staring at that chair, half-expecting the soft rustle of pages, the slight shift of her legs crossing, the look she’d give me when I hovered instead of committing to a conversation.

You’ll never win an argument standing in a doorway, James,” she used to say, one eyebrow arched over the rim of whatever book she was devouring. “Come sit down and face the music.”

I heard it so clearly that my chest constricted. She had said it once when I suggested we paint the kitchen beige. She looked at me like I had proposed burning the house down for fun.

“Beige?” she’d repeated, scandalized. “James, darling, we are not beige people.”