The day I buried Emily, all I had left were our photos and memories. But that night, when something slipped from behind our engagement picture, my hands trembled. What I found made me question if I had truly known my wife at all.

The funeral home had tied a black ribbon to our front door. I stared at it, the key suspended in the lock, wondering who thought it was necessary.

As if the neighbors didn’t already know I’d spent the afternoon at the cemetery, watching them lower my wife into the ground while Rev. Matthews spoke of angels and eternal rest.
My hands were unsteady as I finally turned the key. The house smelled wrong—like leather polish and sympathy casseroles.

Emily’s sister, Jane, had “helped” by cleaning while I was at the hospital in those final days. Now everything shone with an almost unnatural brightness, sharp enough to make my teeth ache.

“Home sweet home, right, Em?” I said, but caught myself. The silence that followed felt like a punch to the gut.

I loosened my tie, the one Emily had bought me last Christmas, and kicked off my shoes. They thudded softly against the wall.

Emily would have scolded me for that, her lips pressed together as she tried to stop herself from smiling while she lectured me about scuff marks.

“Sorry, honey,” I muttered, leaving the shoes where they landed.